ft 


Gojy right.  yoj,ly  Ht 


OF  CALIP.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELR8 


Jn  the  Qolden  Days. 


-BY-  Q 

EDNA  LYALL,  \ 


Author  of  "DONOV4N,"  "WE  Two,"   «WoN  BY  WAITING,' 
'  KNIGHT-ERRANT." 


\ 


It  is  not  but  the  tempest  that  doth  show 

The  seaman's  cunning  ;  but  the  field  that  tries 

The  captain's  courage ;  and  we  come  to  know 

Best  what  men  are  in  their  worst  jeopardies  ; 

For  lo,  how  many  have  we  seen  to  grow 

To  high  renown  from  lowest  miseries, 

Out  oi  the  hands  of  death,  and  many  a  one 

T'  feMB  been  undone,  had  they  not  been  undone." 

S.DAHIBL.    1619. 


NEW  YORK : 

HURST  &•  COMPANY, 

PUBLISHERS. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 


CHAFFER  I. 

"  aooD  KINO  CHARLES'S  QOLOHJ? 

What  stronger  breastplate  than  a  heart  untainted: 
Thrice  is  he  armed  that  hath  his  quarrel  just, 
And  he  but  naked,  though  locked  up  in  steel 
Whose  conscience  with  injustice  is  corrupted. 

SHAKESPIABJU 

"THAT  stripling  of  yours  is  too  quiet  by  half,  Randolph  1 
You  should  shake  him  up  a  bit—  give  him  a  little  of  youf 
superfluous  energy." 

"  Hugo  is  but  nineteen  ;  you  can  hardly  expect  him  to 
be  aught  but  a  raw  schoolboy." 

Sir  Peregrine  Blake  laughed. 

"  Schoolboy  indeed  !  as  little  of  a  boy  as  ever  I  saw. 
You've  kept  him  too  close,  Randolph,  and  that's  a  fact  I 
Mewed  him  up  as  though  he  were  a  convent  maid.  " 

"  He  had  good  schooling  at  Westminster,"  returned  the 
other  ;  "  and  if  Dr.  Busby  couldn't  birch  him  into  an  ordi- 
nary fellow  how  can  I  help  it?  I  am  sure  he  has  had 
enough  thrashings  from  me  alone  to  harden  him  1  " 

"  1  11  warrant  that  1  "  said  Sir  Peregrine,  smiling 
broadly.  "  You  were  ever  a  good  hand  at  keeping  other 
folk  in  order.  For  my  part  I  marvel  that  your  brother  is 
so  willing  to  bow  down  to  you  in  everything.  " 

"  Habit,  Blake  —  a  mere  matter  of  habit  I've  brought 
him  up  to  it,  and  now  begin  to  reap  the  reward  of  my 
pains.  He  will  be  a  useful  second  to  me." 

"  Why  don't  you  get  him  a  commission  ?  The  army  is 
the  best  cure  for  your  bookish,  philosophizing  youth  !  " 

"He's  not  fit  for  active  service.  Besides,  I  would 
rather  fcave  him  in  my  own  profession." 

2131111 


gri 
H 


6  IV  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

••  Others  believe  no  voice  to  an  organ 
So  sweet  as  lawyer's  in  his  bar-gown.'" 

trolled  Sir  Peregrine,  quoting  from  Hudibras,  the  greal 
satire  of  the  times.  "Well,  after  all,  the  bar  is  the  usual 
thing  for  younger  sons.  Have  you  fairly  settled  tha 
matter  ?  " 

"Quite.  He  was  entered  as  a  student  at  the  Inner 
Temple  six  months  ago,  and  already  he  has  taken  tip 
with  the  most  jovial  and  rollicking  of  the  Templars,  who 
will  soon  stir  him  up  !  " 

"What,  that  fellow  Denham,  who's  riding  with  him 
now  ?  " 

"Ay,  the  one  who  was  so  lucky  yesterday  at  New- 
market I  never  knew  such  a  fellow  ;  he  was  born  to 
win  1  " 

"  By  my  faith  !  an  odd  pair  of  friends  !  "  said  Sir  Pere- 

ine,   laughing.       "Rupert    Denham—  dare-devil,     and 

ugo  Wharncliffe  —  passive  obedience  in  the  flesh  I  " 

The  elder  brother  frowned  a  little. 

"Passive  obedience  has  its  advantages,"  he  remarked, 
«rith  some  asperity. 

And  for  a  few  minutes  there  was  a  pause  in  the  conver- 
sation. 

The  two  were  riding  along  a  rough  track  which  in 
those  days  —  two  hundred  years  ago  —  was  dignified  by  the 
name  of  a  road.  All  around  them  lay  a  vast  expanse  of 
slightly  undulating  ground  covered  with  low  gorse  bushes 
and  heather.  Of  cultivation  no  trace  was  to  be  seen  ; 
wild,  open,  and  utterly  waste  lay  the  great  stretch  of  land 
a?  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  without  one  field  reclaimed, 
or  one  acre  turned  to  the  profit  of  a  nation  which  yet  was 
often  in  sore  need  of  bread.  That  the  state  of  the  country 
was  not  all  that  it  might  have  been,  did  not,  however, 
occur  to  the  two  gentlemen  as  they  rode  on  in  silence  on 
that  October  afternoon  of  the  year  1682.  Randolph 
Wharncliffe  had  indeed  a  grievance,  but  it  was  a  private 
grievance,  and  as  to  troubling  himself  about  the  people 
and  the  land,  or  the  laws  of  supply  and  demand,  or  the 
abject  condition  of  the  poor,  or  the  responsibility  of  riches, 
it  would  never  have  entered  his  head. 

He  was  now  a  little  over  forty,  a  clever,  cold-looking 
man,  evidently  one  who,  having  set  his  mind  on  any 
object,  would  pursue  it  through  thick  and  thin.  His  feat- 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  7 

ores  were  regular  and  good,  but  there  was  an  ominouf 
want  of  repose  in  the  forehead,  while  the  mouth,  plainly 
visible  under  the  slender  moustache,  betrayed  a  bitter  and 
overbearing  temper.  He  wore  the  usual  long  curled  wig 
of  the  period,  a  crimson  riding-suit,  a  short  cloak  thrown 
back  over  one  shoulder,  and  a  crimson  felt  hat  cocked 
on  the  left  side. 

His  companion,  Sir  Peregrine  Blake,  was  a  few  years 
older  in  reality,  but  years  had  left  few  traces  on  his  face 
either  for  good  or  evil.  He  was  a  bluff,  ruddy,  hot-tem- 
pered country  squire,  proud  of  his  long  pedigree,  his  an- 
cestral mansion,  and  his  well-stocked  deer-park.  He  was 
a  Suffolk  magistrate,  and  flattered  himself  that  he  dis- 
charged his  duties  with  great  dignity  and  decorum.  Both 
gentlemen  were  returning  from  the  autumn  races  at  New- 
market, and  Randolph  Wharncliffe  and  his  brother  were 
to  spend  the  night  under  Sir  Peregrine's  roof  on  their  way 
back  to  London. 

The  rough  track  had  now  led  down  to  a  broader  and 
more  regular  thoroughfare,  deeply  scored,  however,  with 
ruts.  On  each  side  of  the  way  was  a  wood,  dusky 
enough  to  make  Randolph  draw  up  his  steed  sharply,  and 
glance  back  across  the  heathy  country  they  had  left 

"Those  two  are  loitering,"  he  said.  "Maybe  we  had 
better  wait  for  them.  This  wood  might  prove  a  snug 
retreat  for  highwaymen." 

"I  don't  think  it,"  said  Sir  Peregrine.  "  Tis  not  far 
from  the  village  of  Mondisfield,  and  but  half-a-mile  from 
the  Hall." 

"  Mondisfield  !  "  exclaimed  Randolph,  in  a  tone  which 
made  his  companion  look  up  quickly. 

"Ay,  Colonel  Wharncliffe's  place.  Why,  bless  my  soul, 
I  never  thought  of  that  before !  I  suppose  he's  near  of 
kin  to  you  ?  " 

"Thank  heaven,  no  !  "  said  Randolph,  bitterly.  "We 
are  very  distantly  related.  But  I  come  into  the  estate  at 
his  death." 

Sir  Peregrine  uttered  half-a-dozen  unwritable  ejacula- 
tions. 

' '  To  think  that  you  are  akin  to  that  grave,  puritanical  re- 
publican !  We'll  drink  to-night  to  his  speedy  dissolution  ! 
'Twould  be  something  like  to  have  you  master  of  Mondi* 
field  Hall." 

Had  the  king  rewarded  his  friewds  instead  of  pardon- 


a  I  If  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

ing  his  foe  £  should  have  been  in  possession  these 
twenty  year*,"  said  Randolph,  his  brow  darkening,  his 
lips  contracting  themselves  into  a  straight  line,  his  eyes 
gleaming  with  cold  anger. 

"  Ho,  ho  !  "  exclaimed  Sir  Peregrine.  "  Now  I  see  how 
the  land  lies !  You  are  one  the  many  unrequited  cava- 
liers whose  fathers  melted  the  family  plate  for  the  Blessed 
Martyr's  use,  and  lost  their  broad  acres  for  the  privilege 
of  fighting  his  battles." 

"  I  care  not  for  what  we  have  lost,"  returned  the  other. 
"But  I  do  care  that  this  minion  of  Cromwell's,  this  hater 
of  monarchy,  should  be  calmly  enjoying  all  his  posses- 
sions, while  loyal  subjects  are  yet  crippled  by  poverty. " 

"You  should  get  the  fellow  denounced  to  the  king. 
Catch  him  using  treasonable  words,  or  haunting  con- 
venticles. Why,  confound  it,  Randolph!  what's  the 
good  of  your  being  a  lawyer  if  you  can't  make  out  a 
pretty  little  case  in  your  own  behoof?  " 

Randolph  did  not  reply.  He  looked  round  impatiently 
towards  the  oth'er  horsemen,  who  were  approaching  them 
as  rapidly  as  the  bad  roads  would  permit 

The  elder  of  the  two  was  a  merry,  careless-looking  fel- 
low of  three-and-twenty,  his  whole  face  seemed  to  sparkle 
with  humor,  and  his  fantastic  dress,  covered  at  every 
available  point  with  loops  and  streamers  of  bright-colored 
ribbons,  suited  his  face  to  a  nicety. 

The  younger,  Hugo,  was  indeed  a  strange  contrast  In 
those  days,  such  a  face  could  not  but  challenge  observa- 
tion, it  was  so  ctlriously  unlike  the  generality  of  faces. 
In  complexion  he  was  pale  and  fair.  Like  the  rest  of  the 
world,  he  was  clean-shaven,  save  for  a  very  slight  mous- 
tache ;  and,  unlike  the  rest  of  the  world,  he  had  not  yet 
adopted  the  prevalent  wig,  though  it  was,  as  a  rule, 
eagerly  coveted  even  by  young  boys.  He  wore  his  own 
hair,  which  was  light  brown,  and  somewhat  wanting  in 
color,  but  made  up  for  its  deficiencies  in  that  way  by  its 
crisp  curliness,  and  its  great  thickness  and  length.  The 
rather  large  and  marked  features  were  well  cut,  the  chin 
pointed,  the  mouth  singularly  sweet-tempered.  But  the 
power  of  the  face  lay  in  the  forehead,  which  was  strik- 
ingly broad  and  open,  and  in  the  large,  strangely-shaped, 
dark-gray  eyes.  Altogether,  it  was  a  face  to  haunt  one 
— fall  of  interest  because  full  of  possibilities.  Apparently 
there  was,  however,  some  truth  in  Sir  Peregrine's  strict* 


/A'  TKE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  9 

urea.  Hugo  did,  in  fact,  look  as  though  he  needed  wak- 
ing up.  He  lived  in  a  world  of  his  own,  blissfully  re* 
moved  from  the  coarse  and  sensual  world  which  sur- 
rounded him,  but  a  world  too  shadowy,  too  dreamily 
peaceful  to  call  forth  his  best  faculties. 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  keeping  me  waiting 
like  this? "said  Randolph,  as  his  brother  rejoined  him. 

"Ah,  I  see  how  it  has  been  !  "  he  continued,  catching 
sight  of  a  harmless-looking  bundle  of  herbs  fastened  to 
his  saddle-bow.  "You've  been  loitering  over  tho»e 
wretched  specimens  of  yours.  I'll  put  a  stop  to  U  alto- 
gether, if  you  make  it  such  a  general  nuisance." 

And,  with  an  angry  gesture,  he  reached  across,  tore  oft 
the  bunch  of  herbs,  and  flung  them  far  away  into  the  copse 
which  bordered  the  road. 

Hugo  looked  after  them  with  a  sort  of  regret,  but  not 
even  a  gleam  of  anger  dawned  in  his  quiet  eyes.  He 
made  no  excuse  for  his  slowness,  neither  did  he  express 
any  concern  for  having  caused  his  brother  to  wait  for  him. 
He  was  absolutely,  yet  not  sulkily,  silent  It  was  rather 
as  if  some  noisy,  screaming  bird  had  flown  across  the 
surface  of  a  calm  lake,  thinking  to  create  a  vast  dis- 
turbance, but  quite  powerless  to  trouble  the  deep,  still 
waters. 

The  small  cavalcade  rode  on. 

"Well!"  ejaculated  Denham,  turning  a  look  of  uttet 
astonishment  upon  his  companion,  "  I'm  blessed  if  I'd 
have  let  him  do  that  to  me !  Why,  he's  thrown  away 
that  weed  you  were  so  mighty  pleased  at  finding." 

"  Ay,"  said  Hugo ;  "I  would  I  had  not  put  it  with  the 
rest.  Something  must  have  angered  Randolph.  Maybe 
he  has  had  words  with  Sir  Peregrine." 

"  If  you  aren't  the  meekest  of  Templars,  my  name's  not 
Rupert  1  "  exclaimed  Denham.  "  What  right  had  he  to 
fling  away  what  belonged  to  you  ?  " 

"  Right ! "  ejaculated  Hugo.  "  Why,  it  was  Randolph  ! 
He's  my  guardian,  you  know,  my  brother — everything  to 
me!  " 

His  face  became  more  animated  as  he  spoke,  evidently 
loyalty  to  his  very  despotic  elder  was  his  most  pronounced 
characteristic.  It  had  never  occurred  to  him  not  to  obey, 
not  to  reverence. 

Just  at  this  moment  Sir  Peregrine's  horse  stumbled,  8 
•proceeding  which  caused  that  worthy  to  swear  lustily. 


10  lif  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"A  stone  in  his  shoe,  if  I'm  not  mistaken,"  said  Ratx 
dolph  ;  then,  raising  his  voice,  "Dismount,  Hugo,  in- 
stantly, and  see  what  is  amiss  with  the  beast." 

Hugo  flung  the  reins  of  his  own  steed  to  Denham,  and 
in  a  moment  was  making  the  best  of  his  way  through  the 
mud  and  loose  stones  to  the  Squire's  horse.  Sir  Peregrine 
had  also  dismounted,  but  he  left  his  horse  to  Hugo,  per- 
haps not  caring  to  spoil  his  long  riding-gloves,  perhaps 
because  he  had  caught  sight  of  an  attraction  which  he 
could  never  resist 

By  the  roadside,  gathering  the  blackberries  which  grew 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  wood,  was  a  lovely  girl ;  beside 
her  stood  a  little  child  of  ten  years  old  holding  the  large 
basket  already  more  than  half  filled  with  (he  shining  ripe 
fruit 

Exactly  what  passed  Hugo  never  knew.  He  was  very 
unobservant  at  all  times,  and  now,  absorbed  in  his  own 
thoughts,  and  busy  with  the  horse,  he  heard  nothing  but 
a  hum  of  meaningless  conversation,  until  a  frightened, 
indignant  cry  in  a  girlish  voice  fell  upon  his  ear  and  startled 
him  back  to  the  world  of  realities. 

The  scene  that  met  his  gaze  was  of  too  common  occur- 
rence to  have  aroused  him  under  ordinary  circumstances. 
That  a  pretty  girl  should  be  waylaid  by  a  fine  gentleman, 
kissed,  complimented,  treated  with  every  sort  of  insulting 
familiarity,  seemed  to  him,  or  had  seemed  until  now,  in- 
evitable. But  then  few  of  the  women  he  knew  made  any 
sort  of  objection  to  such  treatment  This  girl  objected 
very  strongly. 

All  his  life  long  Hugo  could  call  up  that  picture.  The 
background  of  autumn  trees  in  russet  and  gold,  the  broad 
strip  of  grass  by  the  roadside,  dotted  here  and  there  with 
bramble  bushes,  the  little  child  with  a  face  of  astonishment 
and  horror,  and  in  vivid  contrast  the  red-visaged  Squire 
and  the  victim  of  his  rude  attentions,  her  blue  eyes  wide 
with  fright  and  bright  with  indignation,  her  cheeks  pale, 
the  short  rings  of  sunny  brown  hair  lightly  stirred  by  the 
wind  and  unprotected  by  the  brown  hood  which  had  fallen 
back  from  her  head. 

Sir  Peregrine,  nettled  by  her  resistance,  grew  more  rude 
and  importunate. 

"No,  no,  nol*  cried  the  girl  " Evelyn  1  call  for 
help !  " 

B»*    ven  as  she  said  the  words,  she  knew  that  they 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  II 

were  useless.  Every  one  was  at  work  gathering  apples 
in  the  orchard,  and  the  orchard  was  half-a-mile  away. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Hugo  woke  up.  Had  Sir 
Peregrine  guessed  what  would  be  the  first  results  of  that 
waking,  he  would  have  prudently  left  his  wish  unuttered. 
For  all  at  once,  and  in  a  manner  which  absolutely  took 
away  his  breath,  he  was  aware  of  an  apparition  in  Lincoln 
green  which  thrust  itself  between  him  and  the  object  of  his 
admiration,  a  pair  of  strong  arms  encircled  him,  an  adroit 
push  and  jerk  came  at  that  one  vulnerable  point  the  back 
of  his  knee,  and  in  a  trice  he  was  sprawling  on  his  back 
among  the  long  grass. 

"There!  run  off  while  you  can  I  "  said  Hugo,  rather 
breathlessly,  turning  to  the  rescued  maiden.  He  was 
evidently  well  taught  in  all  gymnastic  feats,  but  out  of 
training. 

"Oh,"  she  faltered,  "  how  shall  I  thank  you  enough  !  " 

"By  getting  into  safety  now,"  he  said,  smiling,  and 
motioning  her  back  from  the  road. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  spoken  so  decidedly,  or 
assumed  such  an  air  of  command  ;  he  felt  altogether  a 
different  creature,  stronger,  freer,  but  less  peaceful — for 
once  in  his  life,  indeed,  positively  anxious. 

Both  Randolph  and  Denham  had  now  dismounted. 
Denham  was  trying  to  conceal  his  silent  convulsions  of 
laughter,  while  Randolph,  with  an  air  of  great  concern  and 
a  crease  in  his  brow  which  boded  ill  for  Hugo's  future, 
bent  over  Sir  Peregrine,  who  was  struggling  again  to  his 
feet. 

"The  impudent,  meddling  puppy  f  "*  he  exclaimed, 
pouring  forth  a  whole  volley  of  oaths.  J'  You  shall  pay 
dearly  for  this,  sir  !  I'll  call  you  out  for  this,  sir ! " 

Randolph  looked  not  a  little  discomposed  at  this  an- 
nouncement. It  was  quite  in  accordance  with  the  customs 
of  the  times,  but  somehow  he  had  never  contemplated 
the  possibility  of  a  duel  for  his  brother. 

"You  would  never  fight  a  mere  schoolboy  like  that, 
Blake !  I  promise  you  he  shall  have  a  sound  thrashing 
to-night  for  his  impudence.  Come  here,  Hugo  ;  apologize 
to  Sir  Peregrine  at  once. " 

Hugo  moved  a  few  steps  forward,  but  did  not  utter  a 
word.  Denham  watched  his  face  curiously.  All  its 
dreamy  content  was  gone,  all  its  unquestioning  calm  dis- 
pelled; there  had  come  to  him  one  of  those  terrible 


12  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  FS. 

moments  which  occur  in  most  lives  when  suddenly,  with 
out  the  slightest  warning,  we  are  called  upon  to  choose 
between  two  courses,  both  painful  to  us,  both  apparently 
evil  Was  he  now  at  last  to  disobey  his  guardian,  or  was 
he  to  own  himself  in  the  wrong  when  he  knew  that  he 
had  been  right  ?  Either  decision  would,  as  he  was  even 
now  dimly  aware,  involve  him  in  great  danger.  If  he 
obeyed  his  brother's  command,  his  moral  being  would  be 
degraded.  If  he  disobeyed,  his  physical  being  would  be  in 
mortal  peril ;  for  he  was  quite  well  aware  that,  although  by 
mere  ability  he  might  manage  to  throw  Sir  Peregrine,  he 
had  no  chance  in  an  actual  duel.  But  to  disobey  Ran- 
dolph, and  to  do  so  with  nothing  but  death  staring  him  in  the 
face  !  The  habit  of  a  lifetime  was  not  to  be  easily  broken  ; 
the  habitually  submissive  will  could  not  assert  itself  with- 
out a  violent  and  a  most  painful  effort.  There  was  a  dead 
pause,  not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard  save  the  autumn  wind 
sighing  among  the  trees,  and  the  munching  of  the  horses 
as  they  grazed  by  the  roadside. 

' '  What  do  you  mean  by  hesitating  like  this  ?  "  said  Ran- 
dolph, laying  a  heavy  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  "  Do  as 
I  tell  you,  apologize  at  once." 

"I  can't  apologize,"  said  Hugo  at  last,  in  a  quick,  agi- 
tated voice.  "  I  am  sorry  to  have  had  to  throw  Sir  Pere- 
grine, but  it  was  a  disagreeable  necessity." 

"You  meddling,  conceited  jackanapes,  what  do  you 
mean  by  a  necessity  ?  "  thundered  Sir  Peregrine,  purple 
with  rage. 

"  Leave  him  to  me,  Blake,"  interposed  Randolph  ;  "  I'll 
bring  him  to  his  senses.  Now,  look  here,  Hugo,  you 
know  well  enough  that  I  never  go  back  from  what  I've 
said.  I  command  you  to  apologize.  I  am  your  guardian, 
and  I  insist  that  you  shall  do  your  duty  and  obey  me." 

Another  pause.  Hugo  had  grown  deathly  white.  At 
last  he  spoke  with  a  great  effort 

"I  obey  you  in  all  things,  sir;  but  you  must  stand 
second  to  my  conscience." 

"Conscience  !  " 

There  was  a  shout  of  laughter. 

"He'll  turn  con venticler  next,"  shouted  Sir  Peregrine. 
"You  idiot,  don't  you  know  that  you  are  uttering  pestilent 
heresy — substituting  your  beggarly  private  judgment  for 
authority  ?  " 

"  Will  you  obey  me? "  said  Randolph,  once  more, 


Iff  THE  GbLDEN DAYS.  13 

Ing  yet  more  heavily  upon  his  shoulder,  and  speaking  in 
a  tone  which,  owing  to  certain  old  memories,  made  the 
blood  curdle  in  Hugo's  veins. 

He  looked  right  up  into  the  fierce,  gray  eyes,  however, 
and  answered,  firmly, 

''No,  sir,  I  will  not." 

There  was  a  touch  of  dignity  in  his  manner  which 
startled  Denham.  Perhaps  it  was  owing  to  the  entire 
absence  of  defiance,  the  mingled  regret  and  respect  of  his 
tone. 

"Then  go  to  your  destruction  !"  said  Randolph,  furi- 
ously. "Blake,  I  am  happy  to  act  as  your  second.  I 
hope  you'll  give  this  impudent  rebel  a  good  lesson." 

"  No  delay,  then,"  roared  Sir  Peregrine.  "We'll  have 
it  out,  now  that  my  blood's  up.  Come,  look  sharp,  Wharn- 
cliffe  !  " 

"My  man  has  the  choice  of  weapons,"  said  Denham, 
stepping  forward,  and  voluntarily  taking  the  part  of 
second  to  his  friend. 

Sir  Peregrine  laughed. 

"Let  him  take  it,  then,  and  be  quick.  Tell  him  that 
both  my  sword  and  my  pistol  have  seen  good  service,  and 
have  settled  better  men  ere  now." 

Denham  rejoined  Hugo,  who  had  retired  a  little  dis- 
tance, and  delivered  the  message. 

"And  you'd  best  choose  swords,  old  fellow,  for  Blake 
is  such  a  confounded  good  shot,  that  you'd  not  stand  a 
chance  that  way,"  he  added. 

"All  right,"  said  Hugo,  mechanically  drawing  his 
weapon  from  its  scabbard,  and  examining  its  edge. 

At  that  time,  a  sword  was  part  of  the  ordinary  dress  of 
every  gentleman,  but  Hugo's  had  at  present  been  orna- 
mental rather  than  useful.  He  had  grasped  the  hilt  each 
Sunday  when  the  women  curtseyed  in  the  Creed,  but  the 
action  had  been  purely  mechanical.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  him  that  he  might  one  day  be  called  on  to 
defend  his  faith. 

Denham  crossed  over  once  more  with  the  decision,  then 
returned.  His  merry  face  looked  a  trifle  graver  than 
usual,  and  his  jokes  came  with  a  slight  effort. 

"  By  heaven  !  I  wish  I  could  go  in  instead  of  you,"  he 
said.  "That  hot-tempered  squire  is  as  strong  as  an  ox, 
and  a  practised  hand,  while  you !  " 

He  broke  off,  and  glanced  at  his  companion,  who  ha<J 


I4  IN  THE  GOLDEX  DAYS. 

thrown  aside  his  riding-cloak  and  doublet,  and  now  stood, 
straight  and  slim,  in  a  close  fitting  vest  of  dark  green 
cloth,  loose  breeches,  and  crimson  stockings,  his  ample 
white  shirt-sleeves  tied  at  the  wrist  with  bunches  of  crim- 
son ribbon.  He  seemed  ridiculously  young,  and  most 
obviously  unequal  to  his  challenger,  more  fit  to  be  quietly 
poring  over  books  in  some  library  than  preparing  for  a 
duel. 

"Look  here,  old  fellow,"  said  Denham,  forcing  a  little 
merriment  into  his  voice,  which  he  was  far  from  feeling, 
"  you  must  pluck  up  heart  of  grace !  If  you  go  in  as 
spiritless  as  you  are  now,  you'll  be  a  dead  man  in  five 
minutes — and  then  you'll  be  bodiless,  which  will  be 
worse.  Come,  cheer  up.  Think  you  are  going  to  kill 
him." 

Hugo  shuddered  at  the  idea. 

"  Good  Lord  !  what  a  thing  it  is  to  here  an  imagina- 
tion !  Now,  I  can  go  in  for  a  duel  and  enjoy  it.  Why 
can't  you  expect  the  best  for  once  ?  " 

"I'm  not  sure  which  is  the  best,"  said  Hugo,  reflectively. 
"However" — smiling  a  little — "it's  waste  of  time  to 
think  of  it.  Of  course  he's  more  than  a  match  for  me. 
Seems  odd  to  have  been  born  and  bred  for  this — to  throw 
away  one's  life  in  a  dispute.  A  waste  of  good  material  1 
Though  Mr.  Newton  says  there's  no  waste  in  Nature. " 

"Was  there  ever  such  a  fellow  !  "  exclaimed  Denham, 
almost  ready  to  shake  him,  and  yet  feeling  all  the  time  a 
curious  sense  of  awe.  "He's  already  begun  to  picture 
himself  as  worms'-meat !  Thank  Heaven,  I'm  a  practical 
man,  and  not  a  visionary  1  Can't  you  get  up  even  a  spice 
of  anger  to  warm  you  ?  " 

Hugo  shook  his  head. 

"Sir  Peregrine  has  anger  enough  for  the  two  of  us,"  he 
said,  with  a  touch  of  humor  in  his  tone.  "  I  did  feel 
angry  when  the  girl  cried,  but  that's  all  over  now.  There  ! 
time's  up.  We  must  come.  Thanks,  Denham,  for  your 
help." 

They  walked  a  few  paces  in  silence,  Hugo's  eyes  invol- 
untarily turned  not  to  his  antagonist  but  to  his  brother. 
He  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  keenly,  then  turned  to 
Denham  with  a  sigh. 

"If  only  Randolph  had  not  deserted  me !  "  he  said 
wistfully,  "  I  should  care  very  little  for  the  rest." 

The  seconds  spoke  a  few  words  to  each  other,  and  led 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  15 

the  way  to  the  smoothest  bit  of  turf  at  hand.  Hugo  fol- 
lowed in  a  dull,  mechanical  way.  Whether  it  were 
cowardly  or  no,  he  could  not  candidly  own  that  he  felt 
anything  but  heavy-hearted. 

To  be  compelled  to  lay  down  his  life  by  the  barbarous 
custom  of  the  time,  was  not  to  him  a  very  inspiriting 
thing. 

Never  before  had  the  world  seemed  so  beautiful  to  him, 
never  had  the  mere  joy  of  existence  thrilled  through  him 
as  it  did  now.  He  took  one  long,  searching  glance  all 
around.  Good-bye  to  the  blue  skies  with  their  fleecy 
white  cloudlets,  good-bye  to  the  autumn  woods,  good-bye 
to  beautiful  Nature,  of  whom  he  knew  so  little  and  wanted 
to  know  so  much  !  A  familiar  whinnying  sound  reminded 
him  of  his  favorite  horse ;  he  turned  quickly,  and  seeing 
that  Sir  Peregrine  was  not  quite  ready,  he  walked  to  the 
woodside  where  the  animal  was  fastened  up  to  a  silver- 
birch  tree.  Just  once  more  he  would  speak  to  his  old 
friend. 

All  at  once  as  he  caressed  the  steed  he  became  aware 
that  at  no  great  distance,  crouched  down  among  the  thick 
bramble  bushes  within  the  wood,  there  yet  lurked  the 
pretty  girl  and  her  little  sister,  the  innocent  cause  of  all 
his  trouble. 

' '  Joyce  !  Joyce  ! "  he  heard  the  little  one  exclaim,  in  a 
loud  whisper.  "  Look  there  ! " 

And  then  for  a  minute  the  sunny  brown  head  was  lifted, 
and  he  caught  a  vision  of  a  lovely,  tear-stained  face,  of 
innocent  blue  eyes,  which  met  his  fully,  eyes  which 
were  as  the  windows  from  out  of  which  a  pure  soul 
looked  forth. 

"Mr.  Dryden  would  call  them  watchet  blue!"  he 
reflected;  and  then  all  at  once  there  rushed  tumultuously 
into  his  mind  the  thought  that  those  same  blue  eyes 
would  watch  the  duel,  would  perhaps  sadden  were  he  to 
fall  in  her  cause,  would  even  perchance  weep  for  him. 

What  a  curse,  what  a  shadow  to  fall  upon  so  young  and 
pure  a  life,  thus  innocently  to  have  caused  the  death  of  a 
stranger !  What  if  he  could  after  all  vanquish  Sir  Pere- 
grine? Fight  so  well  as  to  win  the  admiration  of  sweet, 
blue-eyed  Joyce? 

Wonderful  vision  of  a  child-like  face  !  Wonderful  man- 
hood touched  into  life  by  the  first  appeal  to  its  protective 
power  1 


16  Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DAY& 

He  turned  away  and  walked  briskly  across  the  turf  to 
the  appointed  place ;  his  heart  beat  high  with  hope,  a 
steady,  quiet  determination  took  possession  of  him.  What 
if  he  were  fighting  against  great  odds  ?  Men  had  so  fought 
before  now  and  had  conquered !  In  any  case  he  would 
do  his  best.  For  a  moment  his  heart  failed  a  little  as  he 
glanced  at  his  brother.  Well,  he  must  try  to  dismiss  that 
cold,  stern,  unsympathizing  face  from  his  thoughts,  he 
must  think  only  of  the  sweet,  anxious  face  that  would  be 
watching  him  from  the  wood. 

Sir  Peregrine  was  ready ;  each  combatant  drew  his 
sword,  standing  there  face  to  face  each  took  the  measure, 
as  it  were,  of  his  antagonist.  In  truth  they  were  a 
strange  contrast  Sir  Peregrine  a  man  of  great  strength, 
short,  thick-set,  bull-necked,  a  splendid  type  of  an  English 
squire  of  the  times,  and  a  man  who  had  fought  at  least 
a  dozen  duels.  Hugo,  tall,  slight,  delicate,  with  much 
more  of  the  student  then  the  duellist  about  him.  In  one 
respect  only  had  he  the  advantage.  Sir  Peregrine  was 
still  in  a  towering  passion,  his  red  face  was  many  degrees 
redder  than  usual,  his  eyes  seemed  all  ablaze.  Hugo,  on 
the  other  hand,  looked  perfectly  calm  and  self-possessed. 
It  was  a  calm  far  removed  from  the  dreamy  indifference, 
the  philosophic  serenity  which  had  hitherto  characterized 
him,  the  calm  of  a  strong  resolve,  full  of  power  and 
dignity  because  concerned  rather  with  the  welfare  of  others 
than  with  its  own  fate. 

Then  in  that  quiet  country-side,  amid  the  soft  sighing 
of  the  autumn  wind,  and  the  faint  rustle  of  the  yellow 
leaves  as  they  fell  to  their  last  resting-place,  and  the  sing- 
ing of  the  robins,  and  the  quiet  munching  of  the  horses, 
there  rose  another  sound,  the  sound  of  the  clashing  of 
swords.  In  the  wood  little  Evelyn  hid  her  face  and 
trembled,  but  Joyce  dried  her  tears  and  watched  eagerly, 
anxiously.  It  was  frightful  and  yet  it  fascinated  her. 
Would  her  "brave  knight,"  as  she  called  him,  conquer 
that  horrible  man  who  had  tormented  her  ?  Alas,  he  was 
in  comparison  to  him  but  as  a  reed  to  a  sturdy  oak,  that 
he  should  conquer  seemed  barely  possible.  Joyce  had, 
however,  a  firm  belief  in  poetic  justice ;  she  watched 
hopefully. 

Fast  and  hard  came  those  fearful  thrusts  •  Hugo,  who 
at  present  was  acting  purely  on  the  defensive,  parried 
them  adroitly.  So  far  all  was  well.  The  only  question 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  K&  If 

was  how  long  his  strength  would  hold  out  He  was  well- 
taught,  quick,  agile,  and  acquainted  with  a  few  modern 
devices  of  which  the  squire  was  ignorant,  but  there  was 
no  denying  that  they  were  very  ill-matched.  Twice, 
when  for  a  minute  they  each  retired  a  few  paces,  Joyce 
noticed  that  her  champion,  in  spite  of  the  warmth  of  the 
struggle,  was  growing  ominously  pale,  and,  when  for  the 
third  time  they  paused  for  a  moment's  rest,  she  could 
hear  even  at  that  distance  how  he  was  gasping  for  breath, 
could  see  how  he  leant  for  support  against  his  second,  who 
encouraged  him  with  words  of  warm  praise. 

But  Joyce  was  so  much  taken  up  with  watching  her 
"  knight  that  she  did  not  notice  very  critically  the  coiv 
dition  of  his  opponent.  Sir  Peregrine  had  grown  not  pale 
but  purple,  he  was  beside  himself  with  rage,  could  scarcely 
see  clearly.  Once  more  the  two  closed  in  deadly  combat 
The  level  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun  glinted  on  the  flashing 
blades,  and  lit  up  Hugo's  white,  set  face ;  exhausted, 
almost  fainting,  he  yet  struggled  on.  But  to  act  on  the 
defensive  against  such  a  foe  as  Sir  Peregrine  needed  all  his 
faculties  at  their  very  best.  A  violent  thrust  in  an  unex- 
pected quarter  very  nearly  proved  his  ruin,  he  managed 
partly  to  avert  the  blow,  but  was  conscious  even  at  the 
moment  that  with  a  wound  in  his  sword  arm  he  could 
not  hold  out  much  longer.  Sir  Peregrine  with  an  uncon- 
trollable shout  of  triumph  struck  wildly.  Joyce  sobbed 
aloud,  but  dashed  the  tears  from  her  eyes  that  she  might 
see  what  befell. 

Ah,  what  was  this  ?  Blood  was  dropping  slowly  to  the 
ground  from  her  champion's  right  arm;  but  he  had  seized 
his  sword  in  his  left  hand,  parried  Sir  Peregrine's  blow, 
taken  the  squire  utterly  by  surprise,  and  with  the  strength  of 
despair,  made  one  more  desperate  thrust  Sir  Peregrine's 
sword  wavered  for  an  instant.  Joyce  could  look  no 
longer,  actually  to  see  which  sword  would  enter  which 
body  was  more  than  she  could  endure.  A  moment  which 
seemed  to  her  like  eternity,  then  a  fearful  oath  ringing 
out  into  the  still  air,  and  a  crash  as  of  some  one  falling 
heavily  on  the  turf.  She  looked  up  in  an  agony.  Both 
the  seconds  were  bending  over  a  prostrate  form  !  close 
by  there  stood — there  stood — oh  !  why  did  this  horrible 
mist  come  before  her  eyes  and  blind  her ! — yes,  it  was  in- 
deed her  "brave  knight"  He  stood  gravely  watching  his 
vanquished  foe  for  a  minute,  then,  as  if  a  thought  had  sud- 
*  *~- 


|8  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

denly  occurred  to  him,  he  made  his  way  from  the  smooth 
bit  of  turf  into  the  wood  as  though  searching  for  some- 
thing. Very  unsteady  were  his  steps.  Joyce  watched 
them  anxiously.  Ah,  yes  !  it  was  as  she  had  expected. 
He  had  sunk  down  exhausted  among  the  thick  brush- 
wood. 

"  Come,  Evelyn,  come  J  "  she  exclaimed.  "  He  is  hurt, 
wounded !  " 

Shyly  and  yet  unhesitatingly  she  made  her  way  through 
the  tangled  undergrowth  of  the  wood ;  shyly,  but  yet 
with  gentle  graciousness,  she  stooped  over  him. 

"Sir,  I  am  afraid  you  are  hurt,"  she  said.  "Can  we 
help  you  in  anything?" 

Hugo  looked  up,  and  saw  the  sweet,  pure  face  looking 
down  on  him.  It  would  have  been  like  heaven  just 
to  realize  that  he  was  still  alive  and  still  near  to  those 
"  watch et  eyes,"  could  he  only  have  freed  himself  from 
the  recollection  of  the  man  whom  he  had  wounded — per- 
haps mortally. 

' '  I  was  looking  for  water,"  he  said,  faintly.  "  I  thought 
I  heard  a  brook  hard  by. " 

"  Yes,  our  brook  is  near,"  she  replied.  "  Run,  Evelyn, 
quickly  ;  fetch  some  water  in  your  hat." 

The  little  child  ran  away  as  fast  as  her  legs  would  carry 
her,  snatching  off  her  large  straw  hat  as  she  went 

"  Your  arm  is  hurt,"  said  Joyce,  clasping  his  wrist  with 
one  of  her  soft  little  hands,  and  with  the  other  gently  un- 
tying the  crimson  ribbon  which  secured  his  shirt-sleeve. 

"It  is  not  much,"  said  Hugo  ;   "a  mere  scratch." 

But  he  could  make  no  objection  to  having  it  examined ; 
it  was  so  sweet  to  be  treated  as  though  he  belonged  to 
her,  as  indeed  by  right  of  her  womanhood  and  his  wound, 
he  did  for  the  time. 

"  Ah,  what  a  pity  Elizabeth  is  not  here ! "  ejaculated 
Joyce,  when  the  dripping  shirt-sleeve  had  been  turned  up 
and  the  wound  exposed. 

Hugo  did  not  re-echo  the  sentiment 

"  Why  ?  "  he  asked,  smiling  a  little. 

"Because  Elizabeth  is  so  clever,  and  she  says  my  ringers 
are  all  thumbs,"  said  Joyce,  humbly.  "But  indeed  1 
think  I  can  tie  it  up  rightly,  if  you'll  trust  me." 

"With  my  life,"  said  Hugo. 

She  took  his  handkerchief  and  tied  it  tightly  below  the 
wound,  then  she  took  her  own  and  bound  it  securely 


IN  THE  GOLDE2TDAY3.  19 

found  the  arm  from  wrist  to  elbow,  producing  a  funny 
little  housewife  from  her  hanging  pocket,  out  of  which, 
after  a  minute's  search,  there  emerged  needle  and  thread. 
With  these  she  elaborately  stitched  up^her  bandage. 

Before  it  was  quite  finished,  Evelyn  returned  with  the 
high-crowned  hat  full  of  water. 

' '  There  !  "  she  said,  triumphantly,  holding  it  to  his  lips. 
" Scarcely  any  is  lost." 

"Not  for  me,"  he  said,  still  rather  breathlessly  •  "'twas 
for  Sir  Peregrine.  Oh,  do  you  think  you  could  carry  it  to 
him?  He's  past  doing  any  harm  now." 

It  was  impossible  to  refuse  his  request,  but  Evelyn 
thought  she  could  exactly  sympathize  with  King  David's 
followers  when,  after  they  had  taken  so  much  trouble  to 
Tetch  him  the  water,  he  poured  it  all  out  on  the  ground. 
It  was  hard  that  he  should  send  it  away,  not  using  a 
single  drop.  She  went  off,  however,  obediently,  not  much 
liking  her  errand,  but  setting  about  it  bravely  neverthe- 
less. 

"But  I  shall  carry  off  your  handkerchief,"  said  Hugo. 
*'  Will  you  spare  it  me  as  a  keepsake?  " 

"  Tis  a  very  poor  one,"  said  Joyce,  "  for  you  who  have 
done  so  much  for  me.  And  I  fear  that  the  wound  will  be 
A  disagreeable  reminder  for  a  long  time." 

"  It  can't  be  disagreeable  if  it  serves  to  remind  me  of 
you,"  said  Hugo.  "There  !  we  will  exchange  tokens  ;" 
and  he  placed  in  her  hand  the  crimson  ribbon  which  had 
tied  his  wristband.  "  Do  you  know  that  in  Queen  Eliza- 
beth's days  the  court  ladies  used  to  give  their  friends  little 
handkerchiefs  as  keepsakes,  and  the  men  used  to  wear 
them  in  their  hats  ?  " 

"  No,  I  never  heard  that  Do  they  do  that  at  court 
now  ? " 

"  No,  not  now." 

"  Have  you  been  to  the  court  ?  " 

"  Oh,  many  a  time." 

"How  I  should  like  to  see  it!"  said  Joyce,  with  a 
child's  eager  curiosity.  "  Is  it  very,  very  fine  ?  " 

"  Very  fine ;  but  I  would  not  have  you  there  for  the 
world. " 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  it  never  could  be  a  fit  place  for  you.  You 
are  good,  you  see." 

"Good  (     Why,  no,"  said  Joyce,  opening  her  eyes  wide; 


to  Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  KS. 

"I  am  not  good  at  all,  not  even  when  I  fay.  Damans 
Bays  she  fears  I'm  not  in  a  state  of  grace. " 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  !  "  said  Hugo,  smiling= 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Joyce,  with  a  sigh  ;  "for  I  never 
quite  understand  what  it  means.  But  I  do  hope  I'm  one 
of  the  elect,  don't  you  ?  " 

"I  never  thought  about  it  particularly,"  said  Hugo, 
much  amused.  "But  I've  no  objection,  if  they're  a  nice 
set  of  people  1  " 

Joyce  looked  so  amazed  at  this  daring  reply  that  he  half 
wished  he  had  not  made  it  At  that  moment,  however, 
Evelyn  returned,  having  run  a  second  time  to  the  brook 
to  refill  her  hat 

"  That  is  good  of  you  !  "  said  Hugo,  drinking  thirstily. 
"  How  is  Sir  Peregrine  ?  " 

"  Is  that  the  wounded  one?"  asked  Evelyn.  "They 
have  helped  him  on  to  his  horse,  and  will  take  him  to 
Mondisfield,  to  the  inn." 

' '  Did  he  speak  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  replied  the  child  ;  "but  a  good  deal  of  it  I 
couldn't  understand.  I  heard  him  say,  though,  that  he 
would  be  right  enough  with  a  few  days'  rest  and  that  he 
had  never  expected  the  young  devil  to  get  the  better  of 
him.  Is  the  devil  young,  though  ?  I  always  thought  he 
was  as  old  as  old  can  be." 

Hugo  laughed  aloud  ;  even  Joyce  smiled. 

Ah,  how  sweet  it  was  to  rest  there  in  the  quiet  wood, 
listening  to  the  talk  of  those  two  innocent,  fresh  country 
girls  !  Should  he  ever  again  see  any  one  so  pure,  so  good, 
so  amusingly  unsophisticated  ?  What  a  gulf  lay  between 
their  world  and  his  !  Why,  they  barely  understood  each 
other's  languages  !  With  a  sigh,  he  struggled  to  his  feet, 

"I  must  not  trouble  you  longer/'  he  said  "Good- 
bye ;  don't  quite  forget  me. " 

"We  could  never  do  that, "  said  Joyce,  blushing ;  "and 
we  do  thank  you,  sir,  for  your  help*  '* 

He  did  not  say  another  word,  but  just  raised  her  hand 
to  his  lips,  waved  a  farewell  to  little  Evelyn,  and  made 
his  way  back  to  the  road. 

Sir  Peregrine  and  Randolph  had  disappeared  His  own 
horse  wad  still  tied  to  the  silver-birch  tree.  Denham  had 
apparently  gone  back  for  something,  for  he  was  just  now 
appearing  round  a  curve  in  the  Newmarket  road  The 
only  traces  of  the  eventful  afternoon  lay  in  the  trodden 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  KS  21 

and  blood-stained  grass  by  the  wayside.  He  had  but  just 
mounted  when  Denham  rode  up.  , 

"Where  in  the  wide  world  have  you  been  all  this  time?  " 
he  exclaimed.  "  I've  been  hunting  high  and  low  for  you. 
Ah  !  I  see.  The  fair  lady  has  been  bandaging  her  cham- 
pion's wounds.  How  now,  old  fellow  !  Are  you  properly 
and  desperately  in  love  ?  The  fair  one  was " 

"  Spare  your  jests  for  once,  Denham,  there's  a  good 
fellow.  How  is  Sir  Peregrine  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  old  sinner  will  do  well  enough.  He  was  so 
astonished  at  being  worsted  that  he's  quite  forgiven  you — 
sang  your  praises  between  his  groans.  You  should  have 
heard  him,  'twould  have  melted  even  your  heart  of  stone/' 

Hugo  smiled. 

"  I'm  glad  he's  all  right,"  he  remarked,  with  a  look  of 
relief. 

"  Yes  ;  I  knew  you  would  have  gone  into  eternal 
mourning  if  he'd  given  up  the  ghost,"  remarked  Denham. 
"You're  too  good  for  this  wicked  world,  mine  Hugo, " 

Hugo  raised  his  eyebrows,  remembering  what  he  had 
felt  like  beside  Joyce.  He  made  no  reply,  however,  and 
just  at  that  moment  there  came  a  sound  of  running  feet. 
He  glanced  round  and  reined  in  his  horse.  Evelyn  came 
up  panting. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  in  her  childish,  treble  voice,  '''tis  only 
that  I  just  brought  you  two  of  our  apples  ;  they  are  the 
biggest  King  Pippins,  very  sweet  ones." 


CHAPTER  IL 

KONDISFIELD    HALL. 

These  days  are  dangerous ; 

Virtue  is  choked  by  foul  ambition 

And  charity  chased  hence  by  rancor's  hand. 

Foul  subornation  is  predominant, 

And  equity  exiled  your  Highness*  land. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

"  DID  he  take  them,  Evelyn  ? "  asked  Joyce,  when  the 
last  glimpse  of  the  two  horsemen  had  been  hidden  by  a 
bend  in  the  road 

"Yes,    and  seemed  pleased,"  said  Evelyn.     "There 


Ja  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

was  such  a  funny  man  with  him  who  called  me  a  cherub. 
I  thought  cherubs  were  in  heaven  and  devils  in  hell. 
They  seem  to  mix  us  all  up." 

"We  must  come  home,"  said  Joyce,  "and  tell  them 
all  about  it.  I  hope  mother  won't  be  vexed  ;  I  think  it 
was  no  fault  of  ours.  Let  us  come  by  the  road. " 

They  picked  up  the  almost  forgotten  basket  of  black- 
berries and  walked  briskly  on  for  about  half-a-mile,  taking 
the  same  direction  followed  by  the  horsemen.  The  road 
lay  now  between  enclosed  fields — fields  which  belonged 
to  Joyce's  father.  Presently  they  reached  the  park  gate  ; 
Joyce  closed  it  behind  them  with  a  feeling  of  relief  and 
protection  which  she  had  never  before  known,  and  in 
silence  the  two  girls  made  their  way  up  a  smooth,  well- 
kept  drive.  Cattle  were  grazing  in  the  broad,  grassy 
avenue  sheltered  by  the  stately  elm-trees  ;  everything 
looked  orderly,  peaceful,  and  home-like.  They  crossed 
the  deep  moat  surrounding  the  house  by  a  drawbridge 
which,  since  the  close  of  the  civil  war,  had  been  allowed 
to  remain  perpetually  down,  and  over  which  grew  a 
tangled  mass  of  ivy  and  creepers,  then  passed  on  between 
two  smooth  grass-plots,  the  larger  of  which  was  used  for 
a  bowling-*rreen,  making  their  way  as  fast  as  might  be 
towards  the  dear  home  which,  though  she  had  always 
loved  it,  had  never  before  seemed  to  Joyce  so  welcome. 

It  was  a  large,  three-storied  house  washed  a  sort  of 
salmon  color,  which  was  relieved  by  beams  of  dark- 
colored  wood,  and  by  a  dark-tiled  roof.  There  it  stood, 
and  there  it  had  stood  since  the  reign  of  Edward  III., 
though  how  far  the  original  house  resembled  the  present 
it  was  hard  to  say,  since  there  had  been  many  restora- 
tions, almost  amounting  perhaps,  in  the  long  run,  to  re- 
building. 

"Mother  will  be  in  the  south  parlor,"  said  Joyce. 
"Let  us  come  there  first,  Evelyn.  Mother  will  not  be 
hard  on  us,  I  am  sure,  and  Elizabeth,  you  know,  might 
be  shocked." 

As  she  spoke  she  opened  the  heavy  front  door,  which 
led  into  a  flagged  passage,  divided  by  a  wooden  screen 
from  the  large,  old-fashioned  dining-hall  on  the  right  hand, 
while  upon  the  left  folding  doors  led  to  the  kitchen  and 
offices.  At  the  other  extreme  of  the  passage  facing  the 
front  door  lay  the  back  entrance  leading  into  the  pleas- 
ance,  and  close  to  this  was  the  door  of  the  south  parlor 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  23 

the  cosiest  room  In  all  the  house.  Here  in  the  morning 
Colonel  Wharncliffe  read  and  wrote,  while  the  mother 
was  seeing  well  to  the  ways  of  her  household  like  the 
good  wife  in  the  Proverbs.  Here  in  the  afternoon  Mrs. 
Wharncliffe  was  always  to  be  found  sitting  with  her 
needlework,  and  always  with  ample  leisure  to  hear  every 
one's  troubles,  or  to  give  counsel  in  some  perplexing 
matter  which  had  been  of  too  great  moment  to  be  decided 
by  the  elder  girls.  Here  in  the  evening  the  father  and 
mother  sat  together,  Colonel  Wharncliffe  being  too  much 
of  a  recluse  to  be  able  to  bear  the  company  of  all  six 
children  at  once,  liking  them  better  by  instalments,  or 
better  still  singly,  when  he  could  teach  them  or  talk  to 
them  at  his  leisure. 

Very  peaceful  and  homelike  did  the  room  look  to  Joyce 
that  afternoon,  with  its  panelled  walls  and  shining 
polished  floor,  its  square  table  covered  with  the  new 
Turkey  carpet,  which  in  those  days  was  considered  far 
too  good  to  tread  upon,  and  its  stately  high-backed  chairs. 
In  the  window-seat,  a  large  work-basket  open  before  her, 
sat  Mrs.  Wharncliffe.  She  looked  up  with  a  smile  as  the 
two  girls  entered,  but  put  her  finger  to  her  lips  with  a 
warning  "  Hush,"  for  her  husband  was  reading  the  news- 
letter aloud.  Written  in  London  some  time  ago,  it  had 
just  arrived  at  Mondisfield  Hall,  having  been  read  and  re- 
read by  at  least  half-a-dozen  households.  It  was  their 
nearest  approach  to  a  newspaper  in  those  rural  districts, 
and  its  arrival — which  was  usually  on  a  Wednesday,  but 
varied  much  according  to  the  punctuality  of  the  various 
families  who  passed  it  on,  and  to  the  state  of  the  weather 
— was  in  that  quiet  household  a  great  event. 

Evelyn  ran  up  to  her  mother  and  nestled  down  by  her 
side,  Joyce  stood  beside  her  father  listening  to  the  epitome 
of  the  week's  news.  It  somehow  interested  her  less  than 
usual.  She  could  not  feel  any  very  great  concern  on 
hearing  of  the  comet  which  had  been  observed  near 
Cancer,  and  which  probably  foreboded  grave  evils  to  the 
state.  She  did  not  care  about  the  progress  of  the  new 
Royal  Hospital  which  was  being  built  at  Chelsea.  Even 
when  the  letter  went  on  to  describe  how  the  king  and  his 
court  were  amusing  themselves  at  Newmarket,  a  place 
not  more  than  ten  miles  from  Mondisfield,  she  failed  to 
show  the  eager  curiosity  which  might  have  been  expected 
from  her.  Somewhat  lifelessly  the  words  fell  on  her  ears. 


24  IN  ThE  GGLDztf  DAVS. 

"His  majesty  has  been  well  entertained  with  music 
The  Bury  men,  the  Cambridge  men,  and  the  Thetford  men, 
have  all  had  the  honor  of  performing  before  the  king, 
coming  in  their  cloaks  and  liveries  very  formally.  His 
majesty  highly  commended  them,  and  bestowed  upon 
each  company  the  sum  of  two  guineas.  Her  majesty  the 
queen  has  consented  to  witness  the  performance  of  a 
wonderful  mare,  the  property  of  one  of  the  officers.  This 
marvellous  beast  will  walk  on  three  legs,  will  pick  up  a 
glove  in  its  mouth  and  give  it  to  its  master  while  he  is 
upon  its  back,  will  feign  death,  and  perform  diverse  other 
feats  of  skill.  The  king  amuses  himself  much  with  hawk- 
ing. The  weather  has  been  fine.  We  learn  that  Sir 
George  Jeffreys  has  been  sent  down  to  Chester  to  inquire 
into  the  truth  of  the  late  riot  in  favor  of  the  Duke  of  Mon- 
mouth.  The  Duke  of  Monmouth  has,  in  consequence  of 
this  riot,  been  forbidden  to  go  to  Whitehall  or  St.  James. 
Many  of  the  Whigs  are  extremely  indignant  that  while 
their  meetings  are  prohibited  as  '  Seditious  '  (notably  the 
great  Whig  banquet  which  was  to  have  been  holden  on 
the  2ist  of  April  in  this  year,  which,  as  our  readers  will 
remember,  was  not  permitted  to  take  place,  constables 
bjing  at  their  posts,  and  even  the  militia  under  arms  to 
give  due  force  to  the  prohibition),  yet  the  Tory  meetings 
are  all  connived  at.  The  influence  of  the  Duke  of  York 
increaseth  daily." 

' '  Does  a  comet  tell  troubles  coming,  father  ? "  asked 
little  Evelyn. 

*'  It  does  not  need  a  comet,  my  child,  to  foretell  trouble 
to  this  nation,"  replied  Colonel  Wharncliffe.  "God  only 
knows  what  the  end  of  it  all  will  be." 

"  We  have  something  to  tell  you,  mother, "  said  Joyce  a 
little  tremulously ;  and  then  helped  out  by  Evelyn  she 
told  faithfully  all  that  had  happened  to  them  that  after- 
noon. Both  parents  were  more  concerned  than  they  cared 
to  appear,  but  they  thought  it  expedient  not  to  make  toe 
much  of  it  before  Joyce. 

"Probably  they  were  a  set  of  gallants  coming  back 
from  Newmarket,"  said  Colonel  Wharncliffe.  "It  must 
have  given  you  a  sad  fright,  my  little  Joy.  Don't  go  out- 
side the  grounds  again  without  either  Tabitha  or  some  of 
your  sisters. " 

" I  think  they  must  have  been  courtiers,"  said  Joyce. 
"At  least  our  knight  said  h,e  had  been  to  the  court  often." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  25 

"Any  gentleman  can  go  to  the  court, — he  need  not 
necessarily  be  a  courtier.  What  did  he  say  to  you  about 
it?" 

"I  asked  him  what  it  was  like,  and  he  said  that  he 
wouldn't  have  me  there  for  the  world, — I  think  because 
it  was  a  wicked  place.  Is  it  wicke  fath  r  ?  " 

"A  hell  on  earth  !  "  said  Color  el  Wham  cliff e,  speaking 
so  much  more  vehemently  than  usual  that  Joyce  was  al- 
most frightened.  "A  hell  on  earth,  my  child  !  I  would 
sooner  see  you  in  your  coffin  than  at  Whitehall." 

"Did  you  hear  the  names  of  any  of  the  gentlemen?" 
asked  Mrs.  Wharn  cliff  e. 

"Only  of  the  bad  one  who  was  conquered  ;  he  was  Sh 
Peregrine — we  didn't  hear  his  surname.  They  were  going 
to  take  him  to  the  'White  Horse.'" 

"  Well,  do  not  trouble  your  little  heads  any  more  about 
them.  Only  remember  not  to  go  alone  again  into  the 
lanes." 

"Oh,  dear!  *  sighed  Evelyn.  "And  the  very  best 
blackberries  do  grow  there.  What  a  sad  pity,  Joyce,  that 
your  face  is  so  very  pretty,  and  that  the  bad  man  told 
you  so." 

Colonel  Wharncliffe  stroked  his  moustache  to  hide  a 
smile. 

"Is my  face  pretty,  father?"  asked  Joyce,  lifting  her 
blue  eyes  to  his  in  grave  and  earnest  inquiry. 

It  was  against  nil  his  principles  to  tell  her  the  truth  in 
this  case. 

"That,  my  little  Joy,  is  a  matter  you  need  not  trouble 
yourself  about,"  he  said.  "Run  and  look  in  the  last 
chapter  of  the  Proverbs,  and  see  what  King  Solomon  said 
about  beauty." 

Joyce  went  without  another  word,  flew  through  the 
long  hall  to  the  north  parlor,  the  room  which  was  used  as 
the  general  family  sitting-room,  and,  disregarding  her 
sisters,  ran  up  to  a  small  book-case  and  took  down  the 
family  Bible.  Ah  !  here  was  the  verse  :  "Favor  is  deceit- 
ful and  beauty  is  vain  !  but  a  woman  that  feareth  the  Lord, 
she  shall  be  praised. " 

Did  that  answer  her  question  ?  She  went  and  stood  in 
front  of  a  sloping  glass  which  hung  between  the  two  win- 
dows, and  looked  at  herself  critically.  She  knew  that  if 
it  had  been  a  picture  instead  of  a  reflection,  she  should 
have  thought  it  rather  nice.  And  yet  the  Bible  said  that 


26  /V  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

"beauty  "  was  "vain."  "Elizabeth,"  she  said,  half  turn- 
ing round,  '  what  does  vain  mean  ?  " 

"Looking  in  the  glass,"  said  Robina,  the  youngest  but 
one,  unable  to  resist  the  temptation  of  turning  the  laugh 
against  Joyce. 

"I  mean  here,"  said  Joyce,  coloring  and  showing  the 
words  to  her  eldest  sister. 

Elizabeth  read  them  and  thought  for  a  minute. 

"I  can  tell  you,"  interposed  Damaris,  a  tall,  pretty- 
looking  girl  of  nineteen.  "  It  comes  from  the  Latin  vanus 
— empty.  Now,  Betty,  allow  that  there  is  some  good  in 
learning  Latin." 

"How  can  it  be  empty?"  said  Joyce,  looking  puzzled. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  wise  Elizabeth,  with  that  slow,  sure 
judgment  of  hers  which  made  her  the  referee  of  the  family 
— *"  I  suppose  it  means  that  beauty  is  only  like  the  shell  of 
a  thing,  and,  if  it  is  empty,  is  of  little  worth.  I  suppose 
it  ought  to  be  just  the  outside  covering  of  all  that  is  really 
good. " 

Joyce  sighed.  It  seemed  to  her  that  everything  harped 
round  to  that  one  theme,  that  one  supreme  difficulty — 
being  good.  And  she  was  not  good,  though  her  knight 
had  thought  her  so. 

"Shells  don't  get  full  of  water  by  lying  on  the  beach 
and  thinking  how  empty  they  are,"  said  Frances,  the  third 
sister,  looking  up  from  her  embroidery.  "They  must 
let  the  great  sea  rush  over  them. " 

Frances  had  a  way  of  saying  things  in  parables  which 
always  appealed  to  Joyce's  ready  imagination  ;  she  went 
up  to  her  room  thinking. 

"Shall  you  send  down  to  the  'White  Horse'?"  said 
Mrs.  Wharncliffe  to  her  husband,  when  the  children  had 
left  the  south  parlor.  "  I  should  like  to  know  who  these 
gentlemen  are." 

"The  mischief-maker  must  be  Sir  Peregrine  Blake, "re- 
plied her  husband.  "I  recognized  him  at  once  from  the 
child's  description. " 

"What,  Sir  Peregrine  Blake,  the  magistrate?" 

"Ay,  more  shame  to  him.  He's  a  bad  man,  and  a 
dangerous  neighbor  for  me.  I'm  thankful  there  are  a 
dozen  miles  between  the  houses." 

"That  youth  must  have  been  a  noble  fellow.  I  should 
like  to  know  who  he  is." 

"Yes,  'tis  no  light  thing  for  one  moving  in  such  a  set 


IN  THE  GOLDEN1  DA  YS.  2? 

to  own  to  keeping  a  conscience.  He  must  expect  hard 
times.  I  would  gladly  go  myself  and  see  him,  ay,  and 
thank  him  heartily  ;  but  to-night  I  dare  not  risk  it.  I  ex- 
pect Ferguson,  and  two  others." 

"Will  they  stop  here?  "  asked  his  wife. 

"No,  they  will  ride  over  quite  late.  I  shall  admit  them 
myself,  and  they  will  all  be  gone  again  before  the  house- 
hold is  astir.  The  servants  must  not  know  anything  of 
it,  I  can't  trust  their  tongues." 

"Is  there  indeed  need  of  all  this  secrecy  ? " 

"The  utmost  need.  Even  the  quietest  meeting  of 
friends  to  discuss  the  future  of  this  unhappy  nation,  may 
be  counted  treasonable  in  these  days.  Were  any  of  my 
enemies  to  get  wind  of  it  I  might  be  in  great  peril  To 
such  a  pass  has  ' Free  England'  come  1" 

He  sighed  heavily. 

"But  can  you  do  any  good  by  these  discussions  ?  "  said 
his  wife 

"Who  can  say!"  he  replied,  mournfully.  "But  so 
long  as  the  people  are  denied  their  rightful  share  in  the 
government  of  the  country,  so  long  will  there  be  private 
conferences  between  those  who  love  justice  and  hate 
despotism. '' 

"But  you  would  not  lend  yourself  to  any  rising  in  favor 
of  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  ? " 

"In  the  present  state  of  affairs,  certainly  not,"  he  re- 
plied. "  Insurrection  is  only  justifiable  when  there  is  a 
fair  chance  of  success,  and  of  that,  at  present,  there  is 
none.  The  people  at  large  have  not  yet  perceived  how 
fast  the  king  is  robbing  them  of  their  liberties." 

"  But  this  Mr.  Ferguson  they  say  is  much  with  the  Duke 
of  Monmouth.  Is  it  well  to  have  him  coming  here?" 

"  I  have  no  great  liking  for  him,"  replied  Colonel  Wharn- 
cliffe.  "He  is  one  who  loves  intrigue  for  its  own  sake. 
But  he  is  everywhere  and  in  everything,  and  is  a  bold 
purveyor  of  news.  You  see,  dear  heart,  living  in  this 
quiet  countryside,  one  needs  a  better  and  more  trust' 
worthy  news-bringer  than  such  letters  as  these. "  He  in- 
dicated the  news-letter  which  he  had  just  read. 

' '  Not  content  with  so  full  an  account  as  that  I "  ex- 
claimed his  wife. 

"  Dear  heart ! "  he  said,  smiling,  "  I  have  a  vision  of 
what  a  free  press  in  a  free  country  will  some  day  prove, 
and  as  yet  I  can  be  by  no  means  content  '  Tis  by  the 


28  W  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

discontent  of  the  few  that  the  many  are  at  last  awakened, 
you  know. " 

She  sighed  If  only  this  discontent,  this  noble  discon- 
tent, did  not  lead  him  into  danger  !  But  the  times  were 
evil,  and  she  knew  that  both  his  religious  and  his  politi- 
cal views  rendered  him  an  object  of  dislike  and  suspicion 
to  the  dominant  party. 


CHAPTER  IIL 

OVERLOOKED. 

If  thou  ask  me  why,  sufficeth,  my  reasons 
Are  both  good  ana  weighty. 

Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

"  UNDERSTAND,  once  for  all,  that  I  expect  implicit  obe- 
dience, and,  what  is  more  to  the  point,  that  I  will  have  it. 
You  have  behaved  like  an  unruly  child,  and  I  shall  treat 
you  as  such  !  " 

Hugo  did  not  notice  the  astonished  face  of  the  landlady 
of  the  "White  Horse,"  as  they  passed  heron  the  stairs,  nor 
the  terrified  look  of  the  country  girl  who  showed  them 
which  room  was  vacant.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that 
other  people  could  possibly  be  frightened  by  the  violent 
manner  and  the  harsh  voice  to  which  he  had  from  his 
childhood  been  accustomed.  Randolph  was  extremely 
angry.  He  regretted  it,  was  troubled  by  it  It  pained 
him  to  have  annoyed  his  brother,  whom  he  worshipped 
to  a  degree  almost  inconceivable,  considering  the  way 
in  which  he  was  treated  by  him.  But  then,  had  he  not 
expected  this  all  along?  Had  he  not  known  quite  well 
what  the  manner  of  his  greeting  would  be  ?  He  accepted 
it  as  inevitable,  and,  indeed,  was  so  well  prepared  for 
the  violent  push  which  hastened  his  entrance,  that  instead 
of  measuring  his  length  on  the  floor  of  the  bedroom,  he 
merely  entered  somewhat  quickly,  having  calculated  the 
precise  moment  when  passive  resistance,  concentrated  in 
his  shoulders,  would  avail  him. 

The  door  was  sharply  closed,  and  locked  from  the  out- 
side, which,  as  Hugo  was  quite  well  aware,  meant  for 
him  a  dismal  evening,  without  lights  or  supper.     It  was 
certainly  a  little  ignominious,  a  tame  ending  to  tl.v 
on  which  he  had  fought  his  first  duel,  and  worsted  a  Suf- 


IH  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  99 

folk  magistrate  old  enough  to  be  his  father.  But  then 
Hugo  did  not  at  present  keenly  feel  humiliations  of  this 
sort  ;  he  was  too  quiet,  too  much  wanting  in  self-asser- 
tion, too  slow  to  think  of  his  own  rights,  too  ready  to  ac- 
quiesce in  the  stronger  will  which  had  hitherto,  whether 
for  good  or  for  evil,  ruled  him  with  a  rod  of  iron.  Resist- 
ance would  have  ^een  a  trouble — had  been  a  grievous 
trouble  tliat  day.  And  Hugo  loved  peace  of  all  things, 
hated  strife  and  contention,  hated  any  kind  of  noise  ;  he 
would  have  liked  to  please  all  parties,  or,  still  better,  to 
be  left  in  unmolested  quiet  with  books  instead  of  people. 

To-day,  however,  a  strange  and  unforeseen  disturbance 
had  occurred  in  the  even  tenor  of  his  quiet  existence  ; 
whether  he  could  ever  again  settle  down  to  the  old,  peace- 
ful, yielding  indifference  was  a  question. 

With  characteristic  coolness,  he  proceeded  to  examine 
his  temporary  prison  with  a  view  to  making  the  most  of 
its  advantages.  It  was  a  good-sized  room  ;  the  floor  was 
clean  and  well  scrubbed,  the  oaken  chairs  were  good  of 
their  kind  ;  the  four-post  bed  was  hung  with  gay,  red 
curtains,  while  the  walls  were  covered  with  tapestry,  rep- 
resenting scenes  from  Scripture  history.  On  the  whole, 
the  room  was  a  good  deal  more  comfortable  than  his  own 
gloomy  little  chamber  in  the  Temple.  It  had  not  been 
used  lately,  however,  and  was  stuffy  in  the  extreme.  He 
crossed  over  to  the  casement-window,  and  flung  it  open, 
pausing  to  take  a  look  at  the  village.  Mondisfield  was 
a  fairly  large  parish,  but  the  houses  were  scattered,  and 
there  was  nothing  that  could  be  called  a  village-street. 
The  inn  seemed  an  extraordinarily  good  one  for  such  a 
place.  But  in  those  days  English  inns  were  celebrated, 
and  did  their  best  to  make  up  for  the  badness  of  the  roads 
and  the  discomforts  of  slow  travelling.  Exactly  opposite 
stood  the  church,  with  its  square,  gray  tower,  while  the 
cows  grazing  in  an  adjoining  field  all  stood  with  their 
heads  turned  towards  the  setting  sun,  which  threw  a  rud- 
dy glow  over  the  peaceful  scene.  "  'Twill  soon  be  dark," 
reflected  philosophic  Hugo.  "  I  may  as  well  read  while 
I  can." 

And,  taking  a  small  book  from  his  pocket,  he  stretched 
himself  comfortably  on  the  window-seat,  and  was  soon 
oblivious  of  all  around  him. 

The  room  was  growing  dusk,  and  the  evening  air  blew 
in  coldly.  Hugo  read  peacefully  on,  however,  until  a 


jo  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

handful  of  gravel  was  flung  against  the  window,  some  ol 
which  fell  right  in  and  alighted  upon  his  book. 

"  Denham,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  I  might  have  known 
he  would  come." 

He  sprang  up  and  looked  out 

There  stood  his  merry-faced  companion. 

"  I've  been  trying  to  find  you  this  half-hour/"  he  ex- 
claimed, "but  your  brother  would  stand  ranting  by  the 
window  down  below.  They've  drawn  the  curtain,  and 
put  up  the  shutter  now,  so  all's  safe." 

' '  How  is  Sir  Peregrine  ? "  asked  Hugo. 

"  Oh,  well  enough.  There  isn't  a  leech  to  be  found 
nearer  than  St.  Edmondsbury,  so  he'll  have  to  bide  his 
time.  Don't  trouble  your  foolish  pate  about  him — letting 
blood  is  the  best  cure  for  a  hot  temper.  Look  here  1  I 
forgot  to  give  you  your  precious  herbs.  Catch  !  " 

And,  so  saying,  he  threw  up  the  bundle  of  specimens 
which  Randolph  had  snatched  from  the  saddle-bow  that 
afternoon. 

"  How  in  the  name  of  fortune  did  you  get  them  ?  "  ex- 
claimed Hugo,  looking  much  pleased. 

"  Went  back  while  your  lady-love  was  bandaging  your 
wound,  and,  lacking  for  you,  lighted  by  chance  upon 
these.  Aren't  you  hungry  ?  " 

Hugo  nodded.  "  I  didn't  know  duelling  would  be  such 
appetizing  work." 

' '  There's  a  glorious  dish  of  eggs  and  bacon  making 
ready  ;  do  you  think  I  could  pitch  it  up  to  you  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Hugo,  laughing.  "And  I  wish  you'd  go, 
Rupert ;  Randolph  would  be  furious  if  he  caught  you." 

"That  for  Randolph  !  "  said  Denham,  with  a  contempt- 
uous snap  of  the  ringers.  "Shan't  I  throw  you  up  some 
bread  ? " 

"  No,  no  ;  I  shall  do  well  enough.  I'm  dog  tired,  and 
shall  go  to  sleep.  There,  I  shut  up  shop,  you  see  !  Good- 
night ! "  and,  suiting  the  action  to  the  words,  he  closed 
the  casement,  and  soon  had  the  satisfaction  of  hearing 
the  incautious  Denham  return  to  the  inn  parlor. 

It  was  something  to  have  regained  his  specimens,  though 
it  was  too  dark  to  do  anything  with  them  now.  What  a 
pity  Denham  had  reminded  him  how  hungry  he  was  !  And 
why  should  the  smell  of  a  savory  supper  in  preparation 
rouse  such  uncomfortable  cravings  in  one's  inner  man  ? 
True,  he  had  tasted  nothing  since  they  had  left  Newmarket, 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  3! 

and  had  since  then  gone  through  much.  Ah,  by  the  bye, 
he  had  at  any  rate  little  Evelyn's  king-pippins.  Having 
devoured  these  hungrily  enough,  he  made  his  preparations 
for  the  night,  then,  in  the  gathering  gloom,  knelt  rever- 
ently while  reciting  the  Lord's  Prayer  at  a  pace  which 
was  truly  surprising.  This  was  a  ceremony  which  noth- 
ing would  have  induced  him  to  give  up  ;  it  did  not  convey 
very  much  to  him,  and  yet  the  mere  physical  act  did  in  a 
vague  way  meet  a  scarcely  conscious  demand  for  worship 
in  his  heart. 

Just  as  he  was  falling  asleep,  a  question  flashed  across 
his  mind.  Would  the  good  Sir  Hugo,  his  ancestor  and 
ideal,  have  approved  his  conduct  that  afternoon  ?  This 
brave  German  knight  had  from  his  very  childhood  been 
his  hero ;  he  felt  it  a  sort  of  responsibility  to  have  been 
actually  named  after  him,  and  rejoiced  that  his  father  had 
not  modernized  him  into  Hugh.  To  be  in  ever  so  slight 
a  degree  like  this  ancestor  had  always  been  his  ambition. 
How  would  he  have  reconciled  the  conflicting  duties  of 
obedience  and  honesty  ?  Would  he  have  obeyed  the  law- 
ful authority  or  the  inner  voice  ? 

Meanwhile,  in  the  room  below,  Randolph  and  Denham 
were  making  a  hearty  meal.  Neither  the  thought  of  Sir 
Peregrine  groaning  in  the  best  bed-chamber,  nor  the  recok 
lection  of  Hugo  supperless  and  weary,  could  in  the  least 
interfere  with  their  hearty  enjoyment  of  the  excellent  sup- 
per provided  by  the  smiling  landlady.  Nor  was  Denham 
at  all  anxious  to  quarrel  with  his  companion,  though  he 
thought  his  treatment  of  Hugo  unjust  in  the  extreme. 

Rather  he  sought  to  make  him  enjoy  himself,  hoping  to 
improve  his  temper,  and  to  render  some  service  to  his 
friend  in  his  way.  It  was  Randolph  himself  who  first 
mentioned  the  duel. 

"  I  confess,"  he  said  at  length,  "  that,  apart  from  his 
disobedience,  which  I  shall  not  readily  pardon,  I  don't 
altogether  regret  what  happened.  Hugo  showed  himself 
more  of  a  man  than  I  expected.  It  has  done  him  a  world 
of  good  to  be  with  you." 

Denham  laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  It's  a  case  of  a  prophet  in  his  own  country,"  he  said, 
refilling  his  huge  tankard  with  the  excellent  home-brewed 
ale.  Now  if  you  were  to  ask  my  people,  they  would  say 
that  Hugo  was  more  likely  to  better  me  than  I  to  bettei 
him." 


32  /V  TffE  GOLDEW  DA  VS. 

"Opinions  differ,"  said  Randolph  dryly.  "With  all 
due  deference  to  Sir  William  Denham,  I  am  not  anxions 
that  Hugo  should  turn  into  a  scientific  hermit.  That  sort 
of  thing  is  well  enough  when  a  man's  past  fifty.  But  I've 
other  views  for  the  boy ;  I  wish  him  to  make  his  way  at 
court." 

"  I'll  lay  you  any  wager  you  like  that  he'll  never  do  it," 
said  Denham.  "  For  all  his  fine  voice  and  his  handsome 
face,  there's  that  in  him  which  will  never  do  for  Whitehall. " 

"  How  can  you  tell  what's  in  him?  Why,  we  none  ot 
us  thought  it  was  in  him  to  act  as  he  acted  to-day — he  who 
was  ever  one  to  give  the  wall  and  take  the  gutter. " 

"Well,  you  ought  to  know  him  better  than  I  ;  but  for 
all  that,  I'll  bet  you  a  hundred  to  one  that  you'll  prove 
wrong  and  I  shall  prove  right.  Come,  will  you  take  it  ? 
We'll  sup  together  after  the  next  autumn  races,  and  see 
what  the  year  has  brought  forth. " 

"  Agreed,"  said  Randolph.  "  But  you  must  in  no  way 
influence  him  against  my  wishes." 

"Certainly  not ;  I  would  far  rather  see  him  high  in  the 
king's  favor.  Tis  always  well  to  have  a  friend  in  court, 
and,  as  you  say,  it  is  a  shame  that  with  his  talents  he 
should  not  make  his  way  in  the  world. " 

As  he  spoke  the  door  opened,  and  the  landlord  of  the 
"White  Horse"  ushered  in  a  traveller  who  had  just 
arrived. 

"They  will  shoe  the  horse,  sir,  as  quickly  as  may  be; 
but  it  is  already  late,  the  roads  will  be  dangerous,  and,  it 
your  honor  will  stay  the  night,  you  shall  have  every 
comfort." 

"  I  tell  you  I  can't  stay  the  night,"  said  the  new-comer, 
in  a  harsh  and  most  unprepossessing  voice.  I've  other 
things  to  do  than  to  sit  by  inn  fires  drinking  ale,  I  can  tell 
you." 

There  was  a  mixture  of  contempt  and  boastfulness  in 
his  tone  and  manner  which  angered  the  landlord.  He  was 
determined  to  press  his  hospitality  no  further,  and  ab- 
ruptly left  the  room,  giving  the  blacksmith  a  private  hint 
he  need  not  hurry  himself  over  the  traveller's  horse,  for  he 
was  the  sourest  cur  that  had  ever  darkened  his  doors. 
Left  to  shift  for  himself,  the  new  guest  approached  the  fire 
of  which  he  had  spoken  so  disdainfully,  bowed  stiffly  to  the 
two  gentlemen,  and  remarked  that  it  was  a  cold  evening. 

Dunham,  ever  ready  (9  talk,  endeavored  to  draw  him 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  33 

into  the  conversation  ;  but  the  stranger  seemed  not  at  all 
anxious  to  cultivate  their  acquaintance,  and  before  long 
produced  a  shagreen  pocket-book,  in  the  contents  of  which 
he  appeared  to  become  absorbed. 

Randolph  watched  him  furtively,  yet  keenly.  Surely  it 
was  a  face  he  knew  !  Ruddy  and  ill-favored,  with  lantern 
jaws  and  restless,  curious  eyes,  a  face  which  for  its  very 
hideousness  lingered  in  one's  memory.  It  was  clever,  un- 
doubtedly, and  bold  ;  but  the  boldness  bordered  on  rash- 
ness, and  the  cleverness  was  overshadowed  by  the 
owner's  intense  self-consciousness  and  air  of  importance. 
Who  in  the  world  could  he  be?  And  where  had  they 
met  ?  Ah  1  at  last  he  remembered.  He  had  never  met 
the  fellow,  but  he  had  read  such  a  graphic  description  of 
him  that  not  to  recognize  him  would  have  been  impossible. 
He  was  Ferguson,  the  Presbyterian,  the  mysterious  man 
who  was  mixed  up  with  all  kinds  of  conspiracies,  who  was 
always  suspected  of  being  involved  in  half-a-dozen  plots, 
whose  personality  was  known  to  every  one,  and  who 
always  managed,  by  extraordinary  good  fortune  to  be  at 
large.  It  was  currently  reported  that  he  bore  a  charmed 
life,  and  indeed  his  hairbreadth  escapes  were  often  almost 
miraculous.  Where  could  he  be  going  ?  Was  it  possible 
that  he  was  going  to  see  Colonel  Wharn cliff e?  At  all 
hazards  he  must  find  out.  But  he  knew  better  than  to 
risk  a  direct  question.  It  was  not  until  Denham  had  drunk 
himself  stupid,  and  the  landlord  had  returned  to  announce 
that  the  stranger's  horse  was  at  the  door,  that  he  took  any 
definite  action.  He  quietly  left  the  room  then,  took  his 
hat  and  cloak  from  a  stand  in  the  passage  and  made  his 
way  into  the  dark  road. 

"Who  are  those  two  gentlemen?"  asked  Ferguson, 
turning  to  the  landlord  as  they  emerged  into  the  passage. 

"  I'm  sure  I  can't  inform  you,  sir,'  replied  that  worthy, 
much  pleased  that  he  was  really  unable  to  give  the  de- 
sired information  to  his  disagreeable  guest  "They  are 
but  passing  travellers  just  come  to-day  from  Newmarket" 

Ferguson  made  no  comment,  but  mounting  his  horse, 
bade  his  host  good-night,  and  rode  off.  When  he  had 
heard  the  inn  door  close,  he  reined  in  his  horse  for  a 
minute  and  looked  round.  A  small  boy  was  passing  by  ; 
he  hailed  him. 

"Which  is  the  way  to  Mondisfield  Hall?"  he  asked  in 
»  slightly  lowered  voice. 


34 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS, 


"Right  on."  replied  the  urchin.  "Over  the  brook 
yonder  till  ye  come  to  the  cross  roads,  then  to  the  right 
till  ye  come  to  the  park  gate  on  the  left." 

"How  far  is  it?" 

"A  matter  of  two  miles,"  replied  the  boy,  touching  his 
hat  as  the  stranger  thanked  him  and  rode  on. 

When  he  was  well  out  of  earshot  Randolph  calmly 
emerged  from  behind  the  churchyard  wall,  and  striding 
irreverently  over  the  grassy  mounds,  made  his  way  back 
to  the  road 

"  First  to  get  Denham  settled,"  he  said  to  himself. 

And  in  a  matter-of-fact,  business-like  way  he  walked 
into  the  parlor,  coolly  assured  his  drowsy  companion  that 
it  was  very  late,  and  that  he  must  go  up  to  bed,  saw  him 
safely  upstairs,  and  then  with  equal  coolness  and  precision 
drew  the  key  of  Hugo's  prison  from  his  pocket,  fitted  it 
with  some  difficulty  in  the  clumsy  lock,  and  quietly  ad- 
mitted himself  into  the  room.  He  had  not  expected  to 
find  Hugo  in  bed,  still  less  to  find  him  asleep,  for  it  was 
not  nearly  so  late  as  he  had  represented  to  Denham. 
Drawing  aside  the  red  curtains,  he  looked  down  with  an 
expression  of  mingled  impatience  and  anxiety  at  his 
brother.  He  was  fond  of  the  lad  in  spite  of  his  austerity, 
and  Hugo  looked  so  weary,  yet  so  comfortable  that  he 
was  loth  to  disturb  him.  But  Randolph  was  not  the  man 
to  deny  himself  in  any  way.  Hugo  was  the  only  avail- 
able helper,  Sir  Peregrine  being  wounded  and  Denham  far 
from  sober ;  moreover,  he  could  trust  his  brother  as  he 
could  trust  no  other  living  soul. 

"Wake  up,"  he  said,  authoritatively,  shaking  him  with 
one  hand,  and  holding  the  candle  close  to  his  face  with 
the  other. 

Hugo  started  up  and  rubbed  his  eyes. 

' '  What  is  it  ? "  he  said,  sleepily. 

"  Put  on  your  things  and  come  out  with  me,"  said  Ran- 
dolph, concisely. 

There  was  no  need  to  say  "be  quick  !  "  for  Hugo  was 
up  before  he  could  have  spoken  the  words,  showing  no 
trace  of  ill-temper  at  being  thus  roused,  strangling  his 
yawns  while  he  dressed,  half-asleep,  but,  as  usual, 
promptly  and  unquestioningly  obedient 

Not  a  word  passed  between  the  two  brothers,  they  were 
never  a  talkative  pair,  and  Hugo  knew  that  he  was  still  in 
disgrace  and  would  not  have  presumed  to  speak  before  he 


2N  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  35 

«ras  spoken  to.  Randolph  watched  him  with  a  certain 
admiration,  he  was  so  quick,  so  well  trained,  so  wonder- 
fully loyal.  In  a  very  few  minutes  he  was  ready,  and  the 
two  went  downstairs,  Hugo  much  wondering  what  was 
about  to  happen,  and  half  fearing  that  Sir  Peregrine  must 
have  died.  A  question  trembled  on  his  lips  but  he  would 
not  put  it,  only  when  they  met  the  landlord  down  below 
in  the  passage  he  listened  eagerly  for  Randolph's  expla- 
nation. 

"We  shall  be  out  for  a  time,  don't  lock  up  till  we  re- 
turn. " 

"Certainly,  yer  honor, "  said  the  host,  bowing  obsequi- 
ously. "  'Tis  a  fine  night,  gentlemen,  but  cold. " 

He  opened  the  door  for  them,  Randolph  pausing  for  a 
minute  to  light  his  pipe,  then  strolling  out  leisurely  as 
though  he  were  merely  going  to  take  an  evening  ramble. 
When  they  had  gone  a  few  hundred  yards,  however,  he 
suddenly  quickened  his  pace,  walking  so  fast  indeed  that 
Hugo  had  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  keep  up  with  him. 
Where  could  they  be  going  ?  The  night  was  dark  and 
cloudy  enough  ^p  make  walking  along  the  rough  roads  no 
easy  matter ;  they  hailed  the  light  which  yet  lingered  in  a 
few  of  the  wayside  cottages.  Ah  !  here  was  the  brook 
which  he  and  Denham  had  forded  on  horseback  that  after- 
noon. It  flowed  right  across  the  road,  but  there  was  a 
narrow  plank  at  the  side  for  foot  passengers.  They  crossed 
this,  and  walked  on  in  silence  to  the  cross  roads.  With 
great  curiosity  Hugo  waited  to  see  which  turn  they  should 
take. 

"Right  wheel!"  said  Randolph,  shortly,  and  they 
mounted  the  slight  hill. 

Was  he,  perhaps,  going  to  the  scene  of  the  duel  ?  And, 
if  so,  why  ?  Randolph  cleared  his  throat  !  Was  an  ex- 
planation at  last  coming  ? 

"I  have  brought  you  with  me  to-night,  Hugo,"  he  be- 
gan, "  because  you  are  one  of  the  few  people  whom  I  can 
in  all  things  trust." 

Hugo's  heart  beat  quickly.  This  from  Randolph  was 
indeed  high  praise. 

"  We  will  say  no  more  about  your  behavior  this  after- 
noon. For  this  once,  I  overlook  it.  What  is  more,  I  now 
give  you  an  opportunity  of  proving  your  loyalty  to  me.'' 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  asked  Hugo,  unable  to 
keep  the  question  back  any  longer. 


36  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

"  That  is  at  present  no  concern  of  yours.  Suffice  it  to 
say  that  I  hope  to-night's  work  will  be  useful  both  to  you 
and  me,  and — what  is  of  more  importance — to  the  king 
himself.  Now,  can  I  depend  upon  you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Hugo,  eagerly. 

"  This  is  all  I  ask  of  you,"  continued  Randolph.  "Ob* 
serve,  remember,  and  hold  your  tongue  till  I  bid  you 
speak. " 

"I  will,"  said  Hugo,  inwardly  wondering  what  Ran- 
dolph had  in  hand. 

Again  they  walked  on  in  silence,  picking  their  way  as 
best  they  could  among  the  ruts.  At  length  they  reached 
the  gate  which  led  to  Mondisfield  Hall.  Randolph  softly 
opened  it,  cautiously  closed  it.  They  stood  within  the 
park,  and,  with  something  of  awe,  Hugo  glanced  around. 
It  was  all  so  solemn  and  still.  The  broad  avenue,  with 
its  grassy  glades,  and  its  giant  elms,  looked  like  the  nave 
of  some  vast  cathedral ;  the  night  wind  sighed  and 
moaned.  Hugo  shivered.  Somehow  a  feeling  of  un- 
conquerable distaste,  even  of  dread,  arose  within  him.  To 
what  had  he  pledged  himself?  What  was  this  mysterious 
work  which  was  to  benefit  the  king  ?  As  he  mused,  Ran- 
dolph turned. 

' '  Tread  lightly,  and  don't  so  much  as  whisper.  Merely 
follow  me." 

What  was  this  work  which  could  lead  his  brother  to 
steal  like  a  thief  towards  an  unknown  dwelling  ?  Well !  he 
was  in  for  it  now,  and  there  could  be  no  turning  back. 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  moat,  and  were  with- 
in easy  sight  of  the  house.  There  was  no  very  great  risk 
of  being  seen,  for  the  night  was  cloudy.  Randolph  bent 
almost  double,  however,  as  they  crossed  the  drawbridge, 
nor  did  he  venture  to  walk  upright  till  they  had  reached 
the  comparative  shelter  of  the  high  hedge  overshadowed 
by  state  fir-trees  which  bordered  the  lesser  of  the  two 
lawns.  Stealthily,  almost  noiselessly  they  crept  on,  Ran- 
dolph keenly  anxious,  Hugo  utterly  miserable.  His  whole 
nature  rose  up  against  this  mysterious  work,  whatever  it 
might  be.  To  observe,  to  remember,  and  to  hold  his 
tongue  !  Well,  he  could  hardly  help  keeping  the  first  two 
injunctions ;  naturally  his  eyes  were  sharply  watchful  at 
such  a  time,  nor  was  he  likely  to  forget  anything  which 
might  come  under  his  notice  in  this  objectionable  way. 
Most  assuredly,  also,  he  was  not  likely  to  mention  to 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  37 

any  living-  soul  a  proceeding  which  even  now,  dimly  as  he 
understood  it,  caused  him  such  shame. 

Softly  Randolph  approached  the  window  on  the  left  of 
the  door,  crept  in  among  the  bushes  which  surrounded  it, 
looked  and  listened.  There  was  neither  a  sound  nor  a  ray 
of  light.  He  emerged  from  the  shrubs,  and  led  the  way 
past  the  great  door,  over  the  smooth  approach  to  the 
grassy  terrace  beyond.  There  were  no  more  shrubs  now, 
nor  even  a  border  to  betray  their  footmarks  ;  the  grass 
grew  to  the  very  wall,  and,  what  was  better,  the  next 
window  was  protected  neither  by  curtain  nor  shutter.  It 
was  somewhat  high  from  the  ground,  but  on  a  convenient 
level  for  their  eyes.  With  much  curiosity,  Hugo  looked 
in.  He  saw,  in  the  dim  light,  a  large  wainscotted  hall, 
set  round  with  stately  old  furniture.  As  far  as  he  could 
make  out,  there  was  the  usual  minstrels'  gallery  at  one 
end,  but  at  the  opposite  end,  both  he  and  his  brother  in- 
stantly perceived  that  rays  of  light  were  streaming  through 
the  cracks  in  a  doorway  which  apparently  led  to  some 
other  room.  Randolph  beckoned  to  him  to  come  on.  A 
second  huge  window  looked  into  the  same  hall,  then  came 
two  more  windows,  much  narrower  and  much  nearer  the 
ground.  This  was  clearly  the  room  from  which  the  light 
had  proceeded ;  and,  now,  indeed,  drawing  quite  close, 
they  could  see  that  light  streamed  through  two  large 
cracks  in  the  window-shutter  as  well,  and,  in  the  stillness 
of  the  night,  could  detect  a  low  hum  of  voices.  Noiselessly 
they  both  crept  close  to  the  glass,  so  close,  indeed,  that 
their  eyelashes  actually  brushed  the  panes. 

The  whole  of  the  room  was  distinctly  visible  to  each. 
It  was  a  large,  long  room,  wainscotted  in  a  sort  of  yellow- 
brown  color,  and  hung  with  oil  paintings,  evidently 
portraits  of  the  family.  The  fire  had  burnt  low ;  on  the 
table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  was  a  lamp,  and  at  one 
end  the  remains  of  supper.  At  the  opposite  end,  facing 
the  window,  sat  four  men  talking  together.  One  of  them 
was  Ferguson.  Randolph  recognized  him  again  in  a  mo- 
ment. He  was  speaking  in  his  harsh  voice,  apparently 
with  great  earnestness,  while  the  two  younger  men  seemed 
to  hang  upon  his  words  as  though  he  were  some  oracle. 
The  eldest  of  the  party,  and  evidently  the  master  of  the 
house,  sat  with  his  head  resting  on  his  hands,  and  in  his 
grave,  dark  face  there  was  nothing  of  the  eager  hopeful- 
plainly  visible  in  the  looks  of  the  others.  With  his 


38  W  THE  GOLDEN- DAYS. 

long,  dark  hair,  his  stern  features,  his  expression  of  quiet 
sadness,  he  might  have  sat  as  a  typical  representation  of 
sorrow  without  hope.  Ferguson  waxed  more  loud  and 
eager.  His  words  reached  the  two  listeners  outside. 

"The  people  cannot,  shall  not — and,  mark  me,  will 
not  endure  a  Popish  tyrant.  You  all  of  you  know  that,  and 
would  fain  fight  again  for  the  Exclusion  Bill,  were  there 
but  a  Parliament.  And  once  more  mark  my  words  !  The 
King  is  but  a  Papist  in  disguise,  and  in  that  worse  than 
his  brother,  who  at  least  is  an  honest  man." 

Apparently  the  master  of  the  house  strove  to  moderate  the 
speaker's  energy.  He  bent  forward  and  said  something, 
which  was  inaudible  to  the  two  invisible  spectators.  After 
that,  only  a  low  hum  of  voices  reached  them.  Ferguson 
produced  his  shagreen  pocket-book,  and  began  to  read  them 
extracts,  and  once  the  master  of  the  house  crossed  the 
room,  and,  opening  a  book-case  with  glass  doors,  took 
down  a  volume  to  search  for  some  reference.  This  brought 
him  so  near  to  the  window,  that  Hugo's  heart  began  to 
beat  at  double  time.  The  man  had  such  a  noble  face, 
that  he  could  not  endure  the  idea  that  Randolph  meditated 
denouncing  him  to  the  government.  Worse  still,  that  he 
himself  might  be  used  as  the  second  witness. 

Suddenly  his  heart  almost  ceased  to  beat  With  eyes 
opened  to  their  widest  extent,  he  stared  at  the  apparition 
which,  with  gliding,  ghostly  motion,  appeared  upon  the 
scene.  Noiselessly  the  door  had  opened;  noiselessly 
there  walked  in  a  white-robed  figure.  The  two  younger 
men  uttered  exclamations  of  terror,  even  Ferguson  looked 
startled  as  the  figure  advanced  slowly  towards  the  book- 
case, and  seemed  about  to  open  it.  Good  Heavens  !  It 
was  no  apparition.  It  was  Joyce  herself — Joyce,  whom 
Hugo  had  thought  never  to  see  again.  And  better  far,  so 
he  bitterly  felt,  that  he  had  never  again  seen  her,  rather 
than  see  her  in  such  a  manner.  Alas  !  alas  !  had  he  been 
brought  to  play  the  spy  on  her  father  ? 

"'Tis  but  my  little  daughter,"  he  heard  the  master  of 
the  house  explain  to  his  guests.  "She  has  the  habit  of 
walking  in  her  sleep  ;  but  'tis  many  years  since  she  was 
troubled  with  it."  Then  going  up  to  her,  "Joyce,  dear, 
come  with  me." 

"  She'll  wake  up  and  discover  us,"  suggested  one  of  the 
party,  looking  much  concerned. 


/y  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  39 

"I  don't  think  it,"  said  the  father.  " But  keep  still. 
Joyce,  my  love,  come." 

The  girl  instinctive!  y  turned  towards  him.  He  took  her 
hand  in  his,  and  quietly  led  her  out  of  the  room. 

Hugo  felt  a  touch  on  his  arm.  Randolph  motioned  to 
him  to  come,  and  stealthily  they  crept  back  through  the 
garden,  across  the  moat,  and  out  into  the  park.  It  was  not 
till  they  were  safely  in  the  road  again  that  Randolph  spoke. 

' '  You  have  done  extremely  well, "  he  said,  ' '  and  shown 
no  small  self-control.  That  ghostly  looking  maid  was 
enough  to  put  a  fellow  off  his  guard." 

"  Tell  me  now  why  you  brought  me  here  ?  "  said  Hugo, 
in  a  voice  which  even  to  himself  sounded  unnatural. 

"  Because  I  wanted  a  second  witness,  and  had  reason 
to  believe  that  we  might  be  able  to  hunt  down  a  nest  of 
conspirators. " 

"What  do  you  know  about  the  master  of  the  house? 
Why  do  you  wish  to  get  him  into  trouble  ?  " 

Randolph  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  his  name?"  he  said.  "His  name  is 
Francis  Wharncliffe." 

Hugo  almost  gasped. 

"And  that  was  his  daughter? "  he  asked. 

"Ay,  that  was  one  of  his  six  daughters,  and  you  and  I 
may  thank  a  merciful  Providence  that  he  has  no  son, 
otherwise  I  should  never  come  into  the  property." 

At  last  Hugo  understood  the  reason  of  his  brother's 
conduct.  A  few  days,  nay,  a  few  hours  before  it  would 
scarcely  have  shocked  him  ;  he  would  not  have  troubled 
himself  to  think  twice  about  the  matter.  But  that  after- 
noon he  had  been  awakened,  sharply  and  thoroughly.  A 
vision  of  good,  a  vision  of  evil,  had  presented  themselves 
to  him,  and  the  spirit  of  manly  independence  had  been 
roused  within  him.  He  felt  like  one  who  rises  from 
dreams  of  blissful  and  luxurious  ease,  to  find  that  all  the 
pleasant  existence  was  an  illusion,  while  life,  hard,  per- 
plexing, full  of  cares  and  contradictions,  has  to  be  faced 
and  fought. 

"Mind  this,"  said  Randolph  after  a  pause.  "You 
must  on  no  account  betray  our  name  to  any  one  at  the 
inn.  No  one  must  suspect  that  we  are  kinsmen  to  the 
lord  of  the  manor." 

"Is  there  need  for  all  this  mystery?  "  said  Hugo,  in  a 
tone  of  disgust. 


40  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

"Certainly  there  is  need  of  it  if  I  say  so.  You  forget 
yourself. " 

Randolph  spoke  angrily,  and  Hugo  thought  it  expe- 
dient to  make  no  reply.  Wearily  he  plodded  on,  almost 
too  tired  to  feel  very  acutely,  or  to  wish  very  much  for 
anything  but  that  they  were  back  at  the  "White  Horse." 

"  You  are  faint, "  remarked  Randolph  at  length,  notic- 
ing with  what  an  effort  he  kept  from  lagging  behind 
And  with  rough  kindness  he  drew  his  arm  within  his. 
Hugo  winced. 

'*  Good  Lord  !  "  exclaimed  Randolph,  really  concerned. 
"I  had  forgot  Sir  Peregrine  struck  you.  Here,  come  the 
other  side.  Is  it  much  ?  " 

"Oh  no,  a  mere  scratch,"  said  Hugo,  beginning  to  step 
out  briskly. 

In  all  his  life  Randolph  had  never  spoken  to  him  with 
so  much  solicitude,  nor  had  the  two  brothers  ever  before 
walked  arm-in-arm.  It  made  up  to  Hugo  for  all  the 
trouble  and  perplexity  of  the  day,  and  his  heart  throbbed 
with  eager  delight  as  his  guardian  added  : 

"  You  fought  well,  and  I  was  proud  of  you.' ' 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  WARNING. 

The  generous  Christian  must  as  well  improve 

I'th*  quality  of  the  serpent  as  the  dove ; 

He  must  be  innocent,  affraid  to  do 

A  wrong,  and  crafty  to  prevent  it  too, 

They  must  be  mixt  and  temper' d  with  true  love  ; 

An  ounce  of  serpent  serves  a  pound  of  dove. 

FRANCIS  QUARLES. 

THE  next  day  was  a  Sunday.  Hugo  slept  late,  was  in 
fact  only  roused  by  the  bells  of  the  village  church  chim- 
ing for  morning  service.  The  sun  was  shining  brightly, 
the  sky  was  cloudless ;  it  was  one  of  those  still  autumn 
days  when  winter  seems  yet  far  off,  and  Nature  enjoys  a 
sort  of  halcyon  calm.  Hugo's  wound  was  painful,  much 
more  painful  than  on  the  previous  day  ;  spite,  too,  of  the 
sunshine,  and  the  gayly  pealing  bells,  and  the  country 
quiet,  he  awoke  with  a  heavy  consciousness  of  coming 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  41 

trouble,  which  was  curiously  foreign  to  him.  He  dressed 
rapidly,  and  went  down  to  the  inn  parlor.  The  sanded 
floor,  the  blazing  fire,  and  the  well-laden  breakfast-table 
looked  tempting.  His  brother  was  not  there,  only  Denham 
was  at  the  table,  dividing  his  attentions  between  a  dish  of 
excellent  trout  and  a  comely  serving  wench. 

He  waved  the  girl  aside  as  Hugo  entered,  and  the  two 
friends  were  left  to  themselves. 

"So,  mine  Hugo  !  "  ejaculated  Denham,  "are  you  re- 
covered from  your  duelling? " 

"  Nearly,"  said  Hugo.     "Where  is  Randolph  ?  " 

"Somewhere  between  this  and  St.  Edmondsbury,  at 
what  exact  point  I  am  unable  to  inform  you." 

"What  has  he  gone  there  for?  "  asked  Hugo,  astonished 
and  slightly  alarmed. 

"Well,  you  must  know  that  while  you  were  in  the 
arms  of  Morpheus,  and,  by-the-by,  you  must  have  more 
than  slept  the  clock  round,  the  leech  from  St.  Edmonds- 
bury  arrived.  Such  a  pompous  apothecary  as  you  never 
saw.  Sir  Peregrine  will  do  well  enough,  don't  alarm 
yourself. " 

"But,  Randolph " 

"Went  to  St.  Edmondsbury  on  his  own  behoof  and  not 
on  Sir  Peregrine's,  I'll  warrant  you.  Look  here  I  an'  you 
can  keep  a  secret  and  will  swear  not  to  tell  Randolph  that 
I  told  you,  you  shall  hear  the  whole  matter.  After  Sir 
Peregrine  had  been  well  physicked,  bled,  bandaged,  and  so 
forth,  the  worthy  leech  came  down  and  breakfasted  with 
us.  We  talked  of  one  thing  and  another,  and  presently  he 
let  fall  that  he  knew  the  family  at  the  Hall  and  had  in 
former  years  oftentimes  visited  them. 

"  '  What  kind  of  a  man  is  Colonel  Wharncliffe  ?  '  asked 
your  brother. 

' '  Said  the  leech,  '  A  most  dangerous  man,  a  known 
Republican,  and,  what  is  worse,  he  has  without  let  or 
hindrance  given  his  biggest  barn  to  a  set  of  vile  con- 
venticlers  who  meet  there  unmolested  every  Sunday.' 

' '  Said  your  brother,  '  Why  is  it  allowed  when  contrary 
K>  law  ?  ' 

"Said  the  leech,  shaking  his  head,  'Colonel  Wharn- 
cliffe was  a  pleasant  spoken  man  and  respected  by  the 
people,  and  none  in  these  parts  would  inform  against 
him.' 

"  By-and-by,  when  the  leech  had  gone  to  have  a  last 


42  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

look  at  Sir  Peregrine,  Randolph  told  me  what,  doubtless, 
you  know,  that  he  hated  this  kinsman  of  yours  like  sin, 
and  wanted  to  oust  him.  He  says  this  may  be  a  step* 
ping-stone,  and  will  at  least  get  the  colonel  heavily  fined, 
if  not  imprisoned.  Moreover,  it  will  put  a  stop  to  the 
conventicle,  which  is  safe  to  be  a  den  for  breeding  Prot- 
estant plots. " 

"  And  Randolph  has  gone  to  St  Edmondsbury  to  in- 
form ?  " 

"  Ay  ;  though  of  course  not  under  his  own  name. 
Then  this  morning,  when  the  good  folks  are  on  their 
knees,  there  will  be  a  dramatic  entertainment — enter  a 
dozen  wolves  in  soldiers'  clothing,  who  disperse  the  lambs 
and  arrest  the  shepherds.  I've  a  good  mind  to  be  there 
to  see. " 

Hugo  made  scarcely  any  comment  on  this  long  speech. 
His  reputation  for  dreamy  indifference  stood  him  now  in 
good  stead,  and  Denham  had  not  the  faintest  idea  that 
while  he  quietly  discussed  his  plateful  of  fish  and  drank 
the  home-brewed  ale,  he  was  racking  his  brain  for  some 
means  of  frustrating  his  brother's  scheme.  Dared  he  do 
it  ?  Dared  he  absolutely  work  against  Randolph,  check 
him  in  a  matter  for  which  he  cared  so  much  and  must 
have  swallowed  down  so  many  scruples  ?  It  seemed  as 
if  he  were  always  fated  to  have  Randolph  on  one  side 
and  Joyce  on  the  other,  as  if  he  were  to  be  forced  to 
choose  between  them.  What  was  worse,  it  seemed  to  be 
justice  and  independence  pitted  against  tyranny  and  law- 
ful authority.  In  the  small  arena  of  his  private  life  he 
had  to  fight  the  same  battle,  make  the  same  choice  which 
lay  before  the  nation  at  large. 

"  Going  to  church  !  "  asked  Denham. 

"Yes,"  said  Hugo,  mechanically. 

"Then  you  had  best  look  sharp  about  it  And  look 
here,  just  give  the  serving  wench  a  call ;  she  may  as  well 
clear  the  decks." 

"And  amuse  you,"  added  Hugo,  with  a  smile. 

He  was  not  sorry  to  be  rid  of  his  companion,  and,  tak- 
ing up  his  broad-brimmed  hat,  fringed  all  round  with 
ostrich  feathers,  he  left  the  inn  and  crossed  over  the  way 
to  the  church.  He  took  a  seat  close  to  the  door,  mechani- 
cally holding  his  hat  before  his  eyes  for  a  minute  after  his 
usual  custom,  but  too  much  engrossed  with  thoughts  of 
Colonel  Wharnclirfe's  danger  to  attempt  anything  but  the 


Of  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  43 

outward  gesture.  The  parson  and  the  clerk  were  reading 
the  psalms  between  them ;  so  few  of  the  people  could 
read  that  they  could  hardly  be  expected  to  make  many  of 
the  responses.  Perhaps  merely  because  the  words  fitted 
in  with  the  subject  of  his  thoughts,  one  verse  startled 
him  into  sudden  attention.  "Thou  hast  not  shut  me  up 
into  the  hand  of  the  enemy,  but  hast  set  my  feet  in  a 
large  room. " 

What  distinct  thought  the  words  brought  to  him  it  would 
be  hard  to  explain,  but  a  consciousness  that  God  would 
have  freedom,  breath,  and,  above  all,  no  persecution, 
somehow  dawned  upon  him.  The  "  I "  of  the  psalm  be- 
came to  him  the  distant  kinsman  whose  fate  was  practir 
cally  in  his  hands. 

"I  became  a  reproof  among  all  mine  enemies,  but 
especially  among  my  neighbors ;  and  they  of  mine  ac- 
quaintance were  afraid  of  me  ;  and  they  that  did  see  me 
without  conveyed  themselves  from  me." 

' '  Fear  is  on  every  side,  while  they  conspire  together 
against  me,  and  take  their  counsel  to  take  away  my 
life. " 

"My  time  is  in  Thy  hand  ;  deliver  me  from  the  hand 
of  mine  enemies,  and  from  them  that  persecute  me." 

"O  how  plentiful  is  Thy  goodness,  which  Thou  hast 
laid  up  for  them  that  fear  Thee." 

"Thou  shalt  hide  them  privily  by  Thine  own  presence 
from  the  provoking  of  all  men  ;  Thou  shalt  keep  them 
secretly  in  Thy  tabernacle  from  the  strife  of  tongues." 

Thus  here  and  there  sentences  flashed  forth  with  new 
meaning  in  the  old  words, — words  which,  true  at  the  time 
to  human  nature,  must  be  true  throughout  the  ages. 

But  then  as  to  Randolph?  If  he  found  out  who  had 
frustrated  his  plans,  his  wrath  would  be  something  barely 
endurable  !  And,  after  all,  why  should  he  defend  a  man 
with  whom  he  did  not  agree,  and  defend  him  at  such  a 
risk  to  himself? 

It  has  been  left  for  a  modern  thinker  to  frame  the  noble 
maxim,  "Conscience  is  higher  than  consequence,"  but 
yet  it  was  the  dim  perception  of  this  truth,  a  truth  which 
he  could  not  have  put  into  words,  which  made  Hugo  at 
last  decide  that  come  what  might  he  would  warn  the  con- 
gregation in  the  barn.  He  tore  a  leaf  from  his  pocket- 
book,  and,  during  the  reading  of  the  lessons,  wrote  th« 
following  lines : — 


44  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"SiR, — An  informer  has  this  morning  lodged  an  infor- 
mation against  you  at  St.  Edmondsbury,  as  one  who  fre- 
quenteth  conventicles.  The  informer  will  endeavor,  and 
I  doubt  not  will  succeed,  to  bring  over  sufficient  force  to 
scatter  the  congregation  and  to  arrest  the  leading  members. 
Be  advised  by  one  who  loveth  not  persecution,  and  for 
the  present  discontinue  your  meetings." 

Having  folded  and  directed  this  missive,  he  sat  patiently 
waiting  for  the  end  of  the  second  lesson.  Through  the 
pointed  windows  the  sunshine  streamed  brightly,  glorify- 
ing the  simple  gothic  arches  and  pillars.  The  village 
church  was  plain  enough  and  bare  enough  to  please  a 
Puritan  ;  there  was  not  a  vestige  of  color  in  it,  and,  con- 
trasted with  his  glorious  Temple  Church,  it  seemed  to 
Hugo  cold  and  even  ugly.  And  yet,  as  he  sat  there  look- 
ing at  the  golden  sunshine  flickering  among  the  shadows 
of  the  trees  cast  on  the  chancel  wall,  he  felt  a  strange  love 
for  the  place,  the  sort  of  love  we  bear  to  all  places  where 
we  have  had  a  glimpse  of  something  which  was  before 
unknown  to  us. 

"  He  that  is  not  against  us  is  on  our  part,"  read  the  old 
clergyman.  "  For  whosoever  shall  give  you  a  cup  of 
cold  water  to  drink  in  my  name,  because  ye  belong  to 
Christ,  verily  I  say  unto  you,  he  shall  not  lose  his  re- 
ward. " 

The  congregation  stood  up  to  sing  the  "Jubilate,"  such 
of  them,  at  least,  as  did  not  turn  to  look  at  the  young 
gallant  who,  having  behaved  strangely  enough  all  the 
service,  now  got  up  and  left  the  church,  a  proceeding 
which  caused  the  village  worthies  to  shake  their  heads. 

"Better  have  stayed  to  ogle  the  girls  through  the  ser- 
mon," they  agreed  afterwards,  "  than  go  out  just  when 
parson  had  given  forth  'O  be  joyful  in  the  Lord,  all  ye 
lands:  and  come  before  His  presence  with  a  song.'" 
Instead  of  "  coming"  the  graceless  gallant  "went." 

There  was  not  a  minute  to  be  lost ;  he  almost  ran  for 
the  greater  part  of  the  two  miles,  indeed,  by  the  time  he 
reached  the  large  barn  which  stood  by  the  wayside  not 
far  from  the  entrance  to  the  Mondisfield  farm-yard,  he 
was  so  much  out  of  breath  that  he  was  obliged  to  wait 
some  minutes  before  he  was  cool  and  collected  enough 
to  enter  the  place  and  deliver  his  letter.  In  the  mean  time, 
through  a  hole  in  the  wooden  wall,  he  looked  in  at  the 
congregation. 


/y  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  45 

The  barn  was  large  and  lofty  ;  at  one  end  was  stacked 
a  quantity  of  golden  corn,  in  the  centre  at  a  wooden  desk 
stood  a  little,  insignificant  man,  preaching.  Before  him, 
some  sitting  on  rough  benches,  some  on  the  floor,  were 
ranged  in  rows  about  forty  men  and  women,  all  listening 
to  the  discourse  with  rapt  attention.  When  the  words 
found  any  special  echo  in  their  hearts,  notably  when  the 
preacher  alluded  to  the  need  of  courage  and  patience 
under  present  persecution,  there  was  a  low  hum  of  agree- 
ment, a  sort  of  subdued  applause,  which  surprised  and 
somewhat  amused  Hugo,  who  was  utterly  at  a  loss  to 
understand  how  sane  people  could  prefer  to  worship  in 
a  dranghty  barn,  at  serious  risk  to  their  lives  and  to  their 
property,  when  the  village  church  had  been  built  on  pur- 
pose for  them.  There  was  something  very  remarkable, 
however,  in  the  spectacle.  They  were  all  so  desperately 
in  earnest,  religion  was  to  them  such  a  tremendous 
reality.  As  he  watched  their  serious  faces,  their  expression 
of  intense  listening,  he  was  reminded  somehow  of  a  day 
in  Westminster  Abbey  when  he  had  watched  the  deeply 
reverential  manner  of  good  Bishop  Ken.  Each  sight 
stirred  within  him  a  dim  perception  that  there  were  more 
things  in  Heaven  and  earth  than  were  dreamed  of  in  his 
philosophy.  Could  it  be  that  as  in  childhood  he  had 
cared  only  for  flowers  because  of  their  beauty  and  fra- 
grance, knowing  nothing  of  their  structure  nor  dreaming 
that  science  could  open  his  eyes  to  a  new  world  of  beauty 
within — could  it  be  so  also  with  religion  ?  Had  he  as  yet 
only  a  vague  satisfaction  in  something  that  seemed  to 
him  beautiful  ?  Was  there  indeed  for  him  the  possibility 
of  a  deeper  knowledge,  a  clearer  revelation.  If  so,  what 
in  these  matters  was  the  microscope  ?  and  who  stood  in 
the  position  of  Mr.  Robert  Hooke,  perpetual  secretary  to 
the  Royal  Society,  and  author  of  "  Micrographia?" 

"  Men  can  rise  above  the  circumstances  in  which  they 
are  placed,"  urged  the  preacher,  with  an  emphasis  that 
roused  Hugo  from  his  own  thoughts.  "Look  at  Paul, 
read  what  he  tells  of  his  hard  times.  Was  he  conquered 
by  'em,  think  you  ?  No,  no,  he  rose  above  'em  turned 'em 
into  means  of  glorifying  the  Master.  You  must  rise  above 
the  circumstances  in  which  you  are  placed  !  if  you  don't, 
your  circumstances  will  swallow  you  up,  will  drag  you 
down  lower  and  lower." 

Here  the  good  man  fell  to  talking  of  "Election,"  and 


46  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

consequently  Hugo's  attention  flagged,  the  speaker  no 
longer  appealed  to  him.  He  shifted  his  position  and 
looked  through  a  fresh  hole.  Ah !  there  was  the  man  he 
wanted  !  and  close  beside  him  there  sat  Joyce,  sweet 
Joyce  with  her  grave  blue  eyes  fixed  on  the  preacher, — 
perhaps  still  wondering  whether  she  was  one  of  the 
"elect."  Good  heavens  !  and  he  was  lingering  here  in 
the  luxury  of  watching  her,  when  delay  might  mean  danger 
to  her  whole  family !  Feeling  more  of  a  black-sheep  and 
an  outsider  than  he  had  ever  felt  in  his  life  before,  he 
opened  the  door  of  the  barn  and  with  slightly  heightened 
color  walked  right  through  the  space  which  lay  between 
the  preacher  and  the  rows  of  listeners  until  he  reached 
the  bench  where  with  his  wife  and  his  six  children  sat  his 
unknown  kinsman. 

The  congregation  in  their  sad-colored  clothes  stared  sus- 
piciously at  the  new-comer.  Dark  green  and  rich  crimson, 
flowing  locks  and  fantastic  feathers,  seemed  very  much 
out  of  place  in  the  barn.  What  did  the  stranger  mean  by 
composedly  stalking  right  through  their  assembly  in  this 
way  ?  It  was  an  untoward  event,  and  doubtless  boded 
no  good  to  the  wayside  conventicle.  Looks  of  suspicion, 
looks  of  fear,  looks  of  uncontrollable  dislike  fell  upon  him 
as  he  quietly  made  his  way  on.  He  was  fully  conscious  of 
them,  but  as  usual  whatever  inward  perturbation  he  might 
have  felt  was  veiled  entirely  by  the  calm  indifferent 
manner  which  invariably  characterized  him. 

"  Read  it  without  delay,"  he  whispered,  handing  the 
note  to  Colonel  Whamcliffe,  who  in  undisguised  astonish- 
ment glanced  first  at  the  missive,  then  at  the  bearer. 
One  swift  look  at  Joyce,  one  recognizing  return  glance 
from  her  clear  childlike  eyes,  then  again  he  ran  the  gaunt- 
let of  the  doubtful  and  perplexed  Nonconformists  and 
quitted  the  assembly. 

Scarcely  had  he  closed  the  great  wooden  doors,  how- 
ever, with  elaborate  care,  courteously  anxious  to  make 
as  little  disturbance  as  might  be,  when  it  was  hastily  re- 
opened and  Colonel  Wharncliffe  hurried  after  him. 

"I  have  to  thank  you,  sir,  for  your  very  considerate 
communication,"  he  said.  "I  hope  you  will  be  good 
enough  to  let  me  know  to  whom  I  am  indebted  ? " 

"  Not  to  me,"  said  Hugo.  "  But  to  the  spirit  of  justice 
which,  though  you  may  not  think  it,  does  find  a  dwelling- 
olace  in  the  heart  of  many  a  Churchman." 


ttf  THE  GOLDEN  DA  K£  47 

" I  can  well  believe  that,"  said  the  Colonel.  "  We  do 
not  wish  to  assume  any  superiority,  merely  to  claim  our 
right  as  free  Englishmen  to  worship  God  in  our  own  way. 

' '  But,  pray,  let  me  know  your  name,  for  I  have  a 
notion  that  you  must  be  the  same  gentleman  who  court- 
eously succored  my  little  daughter  but  yesterday." 

"That,  sir,  was  an  act  for  which  I  need  no  thanks," 
said  Hugo,  quietly.  "  The  reward  lay  in  the  doing.  As 
for  my  name  I  would  rather  withhold  it,  and  I  pray  you 
to  pardon  me." 

"  It  must  be  as  you  think  best,"  said  the  colonel,  with 
some  regret  in  his  tone.  "I  thank  you  none  the  less 
heartily  ;  your  information  will  have  saved  many  a  heart- 
ache this  day." 

Hugo  seemed  scarcely  to  hear  him,  he  was  listening  in- 
tently to  a  sound  of  distant  hoofs,  far  away  as  yet  but 
certainly  approaching  them  along  the  St.  Edmondsbury 
road. 

"For  God's  sake,  sir,  disperse  the  meeiing  instantly," 
he  exclaimed.  "  I  hear  horsemen  drawing  near.  And 
show  me  some  hiding-place  for  the  moment, — I  am  un- 
done if  my  guardian  sees  me." 

"There  !  under  the  willows,"  said  the  colonel,  pointing 
to  the  other  side  of  the  road,  where  across  fertile  fields 
wound  the  Mondisfield  brook  surrounded  by  a  thick  jungle 
of  rushes,  willow  herb,  and  low  bushes. 

Without  another  word  Hugo  sprang  across  the  broad  ditch 
which  bordered  the  field,  and  was  soon  lost  to  sight  among 
the  tangled  green  labyrinth.  The  colonel  did  not  pause 
to  watch  him,  he  had  the  safety  of  the  whole  congrega- 
tion to  think  of.  Promptly  he  returned  to  the  barn,  shut 
and  barred  from  within  the  double  doors,  and,  signing  to 
the  minister  to  pause,  said,  in  a  clear,  authoritative  voice, 

"  My  friends,  we  are  in  great  danger.  We  must  disperse 
and  that  instantly.  Hurst !  "  turning  to  one  of  his  men, 
"  throw  open  the  doors  into  the  stack-yard.  Now  make 
all  speed  into  the  park,  and  keep  not  in  one  body  but 
scatter  yourselves  in  groups.  Let  the  women  and  such 
as  cannot  run  follow  on  to  the  Hall  where  we  will  shelter 
them." 

The  words  produced  a  chorus  of  exclamations,  but  the 
Nonconformists  showed  nothing  like  panic ;  with  grave, 
anxious  faces,  with  prompt  submission,  they  obeyed  the 
colonel.  There  was  little  if  any  confusion,  only  great 


48  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  KS. 

speed,  great  quietness,  while  through  the  stack-yard  in 
different  directions  fled  the  peaceable  congregation,  who 
but  a  few  minutes  before  had  been  gravely  listening  to 
the  assurance  that  "men  can  rise  above  the  circum- 
stances in  which  they  are  placed." 

Mrs.  Wharncliffe  hurriedly  led  the  way  to  the  house, 
helping  on  a  poor  woman  who  was  burdened  with  two 
little  children  ;  five  of  the  daughters  followed  her,  each 
guiding  or  assisting  one  of  those  who  were  deemed  too  old 
or  infirm  to  make  their  escape.  Only  Joyce  still  lingered, 
she  could  not  bear  to  leave  before  her  father,  who  like  the 
captain  of  a  vessel  stayed  to  the  very  last.  Her  heart 
beat  so  fast  that  it  nearly  choked  her,  and  yet  all  the 
time  she  was  conscious  of  the  sort  of  pleasure  she  had 
felt  once  when  her  pony  ran  away  with  her,  a  sense  of 
risk,  a  demand  for  high  courage,  and  strength,  and  cool- 
ness. 

And  now  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  had  stopped,  but 
only  to  give  place  to  a  much  more  alarming  sound,  the 
sound  of  men's  voices.  Loud  voices  declaring  that  "  this 
was  the  place,  this  the  accursed  conventicle,  this  the  v'le 
preaching-shop. " 

"Joy  !  are  you  here  !  "  exclaimed  Colonel  Wharncliffe, 
for  the  first  time  becoming  conscious  of  her  presence. 
"We  are  too  late  now  to  run,  child.  Here, — this  way  !  " 
and  seizing  her  hand  he  dragged  her  after  him  into  the 
nearest  outhouse. 

"The  loft,"  he  whispered,  motioning  her  towards  a 
rough  ladder.  Joyce  could  climb  like  a  squirrel ;  she  was 
up  in  the  loft  in  less  than  a  minute,  crouching  down 
among  the  hay  with  her  father's  arm  round  her. 

Heavy  blows  were  being  dealt  on  the  barn  doors ;  at 
length  they  gave  way,  and  from  their  place  in  the  loft, 
which  was  on  the  side  of  the  yard  immediately  facing  the 
barn,  Joyce  and  the  colonel  could  see  that  a  body  of 
about  twenty  men  broke  in.  There  was  a  murmur  of 
disappointment  when  they  found  that  the  place  was 
empty. 

"  I  made  sure  we  should  have  been  in  time,"  said  the 
leader,  turning  to  a  gentleman  richly  dressed  in  crimson 
and  wearing  a  long  peruke.  "Some  one  has  given  them 
notice  of  your  intention,  your  honor,  for  you  see  spite  of 
our  hot  haste  the  birds  are  flown. " 

Randolph  frowned.      Inwardly  he  was  in  a  towering 


tN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  49 

rage  ;  but  he  answered,  with  cold  composure,  "It  is  im- 
possible that  they  can  have  been  warned.  Who  could 
have  warned  them  ?  " 

"Your  honor  knows  best  to  whom  you  imparted  the 
fact  of  your  mission  to  St.  Edmondsbury. " 

Denham  !  could  Denham  have  betrayed  him  ?  Could 
Hugo  possibly  have  got  wind  of  his  intention,  and  once 
again  had  been  troubled  by  a  conscience,  that  truly  un- 
desirable possession  ?  It  was  barely  possible,  and  yet 
who  else  could  have  done  it  ?  Vowing  vengeance  on  the 
unknown  destroyer  of  his  hopes,  he  turned  once  more  to 
the  chief  constable. 

"  What  are  these  idiots  doing? "  he  asked,  angrily  point- 
ing to  the  men  who  were  smashing  up  the  benches  and 
splintering  the  desk  which  served  as  pulpit  into  a  hundred 
fragments. 

"We  have  orders,  your  honor,  in  every  case  to  strip 
the  conventicles,"  returned  the  man,  "  we  always  break 
up  the  pews  and  pulpit,  but  i'  faith  there's  little  enough 
to  wreck  in  this  poor  place.  It  will  serve  to  remind  them 
though  another  day. " 

"But  we  waste  time!"  said  Randolph,  impatiently. 
"Why  not  order  the  men  up  to  the  Hall,  where  there 
might  be  some  hope  of  catching  this  fanatical  colonel  ?  " 

"We  can  go  up  to  the  Hall,  sir,  an'  you  will,"  said  the 
constable.  "But  I  can't  arrest  the  colonel  unless  he  be 
found  a-praying  or  a-preaching,  or  a-worshipping  some- 
how with  over  the  lawful  number." 

"  Confound  your  scruples  ! "  said  Randolph,  angrily, 
"  I  tell  you  he's  a  pestilent  treason-monger,  a  vile  con- 
venticler,  one  who  harbors  heretics  and  preachers." 

"Very  like,  sir,  very  like,"  said  the  constable.  "But 
I've  only  a  warrant  to  arrest  such  as  be  found  a-worship- 
ping in  unlawful  ways,  I  can't  go  beyond  my  warrant, 
sir." 

"Confound  you  and  your  warrant  too,"  exclaimed  Ran- 
dolph furiously.  "Bring  your  men  on  to  the  Hall  at  once. 
Perchance  we  may  yet  find  the  knave  on  his  knees." 

The  chief  gave  the  word  of  command,  and  instantly  the 
men  formed  in  a  column  and  marched  through  the  stack- 
yard, passing  close  under  the  loft  where  the  colonel  and 
Joyce  crovchec  among  the  hay.  Joyce  hid  her  face  in  sud- 
den panic  ,f  t^3  slow  tramp  of  their  feet  drew  nearer  and 
nearer.  It  was  hard  to  realize  that  they  could  see  and  yet 
4 


go  JA~  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

not  be  seen,  and  not  until  the  steps  were  retreating  in  the 
distance  did  she  dare  to  look  forth.  How  strange  it 
seemed  that  their  own  stack-yard,  where  only  the  day  be 
fore  yesterday  they  had  been  merrily  playing  at  "  Barley 
Break,"  should  now  be  the  scene  of  such  an  alarming 
incursion  ?  Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  gradually  the  sound 
of  the  many  feet  died  away  into  silence,  and  the  last 
glimpse  of  the  crimson  hat  of  the  hot-tempered  gentleman 
disappeared. 

"Oh,  father?"  exclaimed  Joyce.  "Who  can  that  be, 
and  why  does  he  so  hate  you  ?  " 

"  I  know  not,  child.  'Tis  a  face  that  is  wholly  strange 
to  me,"  replied  the  colonel.  "  Doubtless  he  is  the  guard- 
ian, of  whom  that  brave  lad  spoke  to  me  but  now.  See, 
we  will  come  from  our  hiding-place  now  that  they  are 
well  out  of  view.  They  can  do  no  mischief,  thank  God  1 
up  at  the  house.  Come  with  me,  child,  we  must  keep 
out  of  the  way  till  they  have  dispersed." 

Together  they  emerged  from  the  outhouse,  and,  passing 
out  of  the  yard,  crossed  the  road  and  made  their  way  into 
the  field  where  Hugo  lay  hid.  Joyce  breathed  more  freely 
when  they  were  safely  sheltered  by  the  willows.  Till 
then  she  had  hardly  dared  to  look  behind  her.  Suddenly 
she  paused  and  clutched  her  father's  arm. 

"  I  see  a  man's  head!"  she  whispered.  "There,  hid 
low  among  the  bushes. " 

"  It  is  our  loyal  preserver,"  said  the  colonel.  "  I  must 
speak  a  few  words  with  him.  From  what  passed  between 
the  constable  and  my  unknown  foe,  I  fear  he  will  get  into 
trouble. " 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Joyce,  "then  'twill  be  the  second  time  he 
has  suffered  through  helping  us.  Can  you  not  save  him, 
father,  warn  him  of  the  danger  ?  " 

"  Thank  heaven  !  you  are  safe  !  "  exclaimed  Hugo, 
raising  himself  as  they  approached  him.  "  I  greatly 
feared  my  warning  had  been  too  late. " 

"  We  are  safe,  thanks  to  you,"  replied  the  colonel, 
warmly.  "And  no  wit  is  solely  on  your  account  that  I 
am  anxious.  Tell  me  where  would  it  least  raise  suspicion 
for  your  guardian  to  find  you  ? " 

"At  Mondisfield  Church  were  there  time  to  reach  it," 
said  Hugo.  ' '  But  I  fear  to  try,  lest  he  should  overtake 
me  on  the  road. " 

"We  will  shov/  you  a  much  nearer  track  across  the 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  51 

fields,"  said  Colonel  Wharncliffe.  "  See,  as  the  crow  flies 
it  is  but  a  short  distance.  The  congregation  are,  I  trust, 
all  escaped  by  now,  and  I  and  my  daughter  cannot  do 
better  than  take  a  quiet  walk  in  the  fields,  for  which  at 
present  no  man  can  arrest  us." 

"I  hope,  sir,  your  wound  is  doing  well,"  said  Joyce, 
shyly,  as  they  walked  rapidly  on. 

"Thanks  to  your  skilful  bandaging,  it  is  healing  fast," 
he  replied.  And  then  Colonel  Wharncliffe  referred  to  the 
duel,  and  a  desultory  conversation  ensued,  which  after- 
wards Hugo  could  not  recall,  though  he  could  remember 
every  change  in  Joyce's  face,  every  glance  from  those 
heavenly  eyes,  every  tone  of  her  clear  childish  voice. 

Yet  ever  mingled  with  the  rapture  of  being  near  her 
was  a  miserable  sense  of  unworthiness,  a  wretched  con- 
sciousness that  against  his  will  he  had  watched  them  last 
night  when  they  little  suspected  it.  ^  Worse  still,  th«*  at 
any  time  he  might  be  required  to  give  evidence  against 
the  colonel.  His  usually  tranquil  face  bore  traces  of 
trouble  and  anxiety,  which  did  not  escape  Colonel  Wharn- 
cliffe. He  felt  sorry  for  the  boy,  drawn  to  him  strongly, 
unaccountably.  Would  he  in  his  life  of  temptation  man- 
age to  "rise  above  the  circumstances  in  which  he  was 
placed  ? "  Recalling  the  far  stronger  face  of  the  guardian, 
and  realizing  how  much  it  had  cost  the  lad  to  go  against 
him  that  day,  he  could  not  feel  very  hopeful 

All  too  soon  they  reached  the  end  of  their  walk  ;  sadly 
enough  Hugo  raised  Joyce's  little  hand  to  his  lips,  and 
turned  to  bid  farewell  to  her  father. 

"I  shall  never  fail  to  think  of  what  you  have  done  for 
us  this  day,"  said  the  colonel,  grasping  his  hand,  "  God 
grant  the  rest  of  your  life  be  in  tune  with  this  beginning." 

Hugo  turned  away,  feeling  positively  choked.  Oh, 
God  !  that  this  had  been  the  beginning  !  That  blind  obe- 
dience had  not  landed  him  in  such  a  strait !  that  habitual 
submission  had  not  almost  paralyzed  his  will !  And 
Joyce,  sweet  blue-eyed  Joyce  !  He  should  never  see  her 
again,  never  be  able  to  tell  her  of  his  love,  never,  never 
in  the  most  distant  future  dare  to  dream  of  her  as  his  wife. 
Overwhelmed  with  the  new  consciousness  of  his  weak- 
ness, he  re-entered  the  village  church.  The  sermon  had 
been  long,  and  now  there  lingered  some  half-dozen  country 
people,  for  it  was  the  first  Sunday  of  the  month,  "Sacra- 
ment Sunday,"  as  they  called  it.  At  first  Hugo  could  not 


52  Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

make  out  what  had  happened,  but  it  was  a  relief  to  find 
that  the  service  was  not  over,  and  that  for  the  present  he 
was  safe  from  Randolph.  How  strange  it  seemed  that 
while  the  old  clergyman  had  been  slowly  proceeding  with 
the  morning  service,  he  should  have  lived  through  what 
seemed  like  half  a  lifetime  ! 

How  it  happened  he  never  quite  knew,  but  as  he  me- 
chanically knelt  on  in  one  of  the  high  pews,  dimly  con- 
scious that  the  old  man  in  the  chancel  was  reading  some 
prayer,  two  words  seemed  to  separate  themselves  from 
the  unintelligible  surroundings.  "  Do  this  !  " 

In  his  misery,  in  his  shame,  in  his  hopelessness,  it  oc- 
curred to  him  for  the  first  time  that  here  was  a  command 
which  he  had  neglected.  And  so  it  came  to  pass  that,  be- 
hind all  the  villagers,  pausing  even  for  the  old  cripple  in 
the  smock  frock,  the  stranger  walked  up  the  aisle  and 
knelt  at  the  altar  rails. 

He  came  so  quietly  that  the  villagers  did  not  notice  him, 
but  the  old  clergyman  was  sorely  perplexed.  Here  was 
a  stranger  who  had  behaved  very  oddly,  who  had  come  in 
late,  left  in  the  "Jubilate,"  returned  in  the  middle  of  the 
communion  service,  and  having  missed  both  confession 
and  absolution  presented  himself  at  the  altar,  though  in 
all  probability  he  was  the  very  man  who  had  fought  the 
duel  by  the  roadside,  which  was  already  the  talk  of  the 
village.  What  in  the  world  was  he  to  do  ?  Moving  from 
one  to  another  of  the  communicants,  he  had  arrived  at  no 
definite  conclusion  when  he  found  himself  opposite  the 
new-comer.  Involuntarily  he  paused,  half  hesitating. 
The  stranger's  head  was  bent  low  ;  he  raised  it  now,  how- 
ever, the  clergyman  gave  him  one  searching  glance,  and 
after  that  hesitated  no  more. 

"I  fear  you  have  done  an  illegal  thing,"  said  his  wife, 
as  they  walked  home  to  the  vicarage  together. 

"Confound  legality  !"  said  the  old  parson,  who  was  not 
at  all  above  swearing.  "  I  tell  you  he  had  the  face  of  a 
Chrisom  child  I  I  couldn't  have  refused  him." 


MN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  53 


CHAPTER  V. 

HUGO  MEETS   A  PATRIOT. 

GIXJUCESTER.     The  noble  and  true-hearted  Kent  banished  !  his  offence, 
honesty  I    'Tis  strange.  King  Lear,    Act.  I.  Scene  2. 

FOOL.     Sirrah,  you  were  best  take  my  coxcomb. 
KENT.     Why,  fool  ? 

FOOL.     Why,  for  taking  one's  part   that's  out  of  favor :  nay,  an'  thou 
canst  not  smile  as  the  wind  sits,  thou'lt  catch  cold  shortly. 

King  Lear.     Act  i.  Scene  4. 

IT  needed  no  coment,  as  Colonel  Wharncliffe  very  truly 
remarked,  to  foretell  national  troubles  in  the  year  1682. 
Never  perhaps  in  the  whole  history  of  the  country  had  the 
political,  social,  and  religious  outlook  been  more  gloomy. 

Rivers  of  blood  had  been  shed  scarcely  half  a  century 
before  to  preserve  the  liberties  of  England,  and  to  protest 
against  absolutism  and  tyranny  :  yet  in  this  year  the 
majority  of  the  nation  seemed  willing  idly  to  acquiesce  in 
the  illegal  encroachments  of  the  King.  The  preceding 
generation  had  dearly  bought  the  nation's  right  of  Repre- 
sentative Government ;  yet  tamely,  miserably,  contempt- 
ibly, the  succeeding  generation  submitted  once  again  to 
the  Stuart  despotism.  The  Exclusion  Bill  had  been  re- 
jected by  the  Lords,  mainly  through  the  King's  influence. 
The  Gener  1  Election  of  the  year  1681,  which  had  pro- 
duced so  much  excitement,  so  much  eager  expectation  in 
the  country,  had  proved  v/orse  than  useless.  The  new 
parliament,  summoned  by  the  King  to  Oxford  in  the  month 
of  Ma.-  was  dissolved  by  him  in  April ;  while  so  great 
was  the  tear  and  distrust  of  both  parties,  that  the  Commons 
thought  it  prudent  to  surround  themselves  with  a  strong 
escort,  and  the  King  was  accompanied  by  his  guards. 

From  this  time  dated  the  area  of  the  "  Second  Stuart 
Tyranny,"  to  be  ended— as  all  tyrannies  must  be  ended — 
by  a  Revolution. 

Hov/  it  came  to  pass  that  Englishmen  endured  such  a 
state  of  things  for  years,  it  is  indeed  difficult  to  surmise. 
Perchance  the  chief  blot  on  the  annals  of  the  Common- 
wealth— the  execution  of  the  King — at  length  avenged  it- 
self, the  bad  seed  bearing  now  its  bitter  fruit  in  a  certain 


54 


TN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 


inexplicable  attachment  to  the  son  of  the  beheaded 
monarch, — a  man  who  deserved  such  attachment  even 
less  than  his  father.  However  it  was,  the  fact  remains, 
that  the  country  submitted  to  be  ruled  by  a  tyrant,  to  be 
without  a  parliament,  to  lose  the  high  position  among 
European  nations  gained  for  England  by  Cromwell,  and 
to  be  bought  by  Louis  XIV.  into  political  slavery,  the 
price  of  which  served  partly  to  keep  the  King's  mistresses. 

One  great  barrier  still  stood,  however,  in  Charles's  way. 
There  could  not  be  absolute  government  while  the  charters 
of  the  City  of  London  and  of  the  other  cities  remained 
Consequently  all  his  efforts  were  bent  to  induce  the  cities 
either  by  fair  means  or  foul  to  cede  their  ancient  privi- 
leges, and  the  journals  of  the  time  show  all  too  plainly 
with  what  criminal  speed  they  complied  with  the  Royal 
suggestion,  and  surrendered  their  charters. 

The  social  outlook  was  even  worse  than  the  political. 
The  reaction  from  Puritan  intolerance  and  ultra-gravity 
had,  of  course,  come  about  at  the  Restoration,  and 
liberty  had  degenerated  into  licence.  But  this  alone  is 
insufficient  to  account  for  the  blatant  wickedness  of  the 
reign  of  Charles  IL  A  wave  of  vice  seemed  to  pass  over 
the  country,  vice  became  the  fashion.  If  any  one  dared 
to  condemn  the  fashion,  he  was  set  down  as  a  narrow- 
minded  Puritan,  and  speedily  snubbed.  Shame  was  in 
those  days  an  unknown  quantity.  ' '  The  quality  of  mercy  " 
was  mentioned  now  and  then  by  Portia  in  the  play-house, 
and  by  the  priest  in  the  Church,  but  was  rarely  cultivated 
by  any  one.  While  cruelties  which  sicken  the  nineteenth- 
century  reader  were  permitted,  and  even  countenanced, 
by  educated  men  and  women. 

As  to  the  religious  outlook,  it  was  the  most  gloomy  of 
all.  The  Church  taught  the  doctrine  of  passive  obedience, 
and  truckled  miserably  to  the  Court.  Brave  and  out- 
spoken Churchmen,  who  would  not  wink  at  wickedness 
even  in  high  places,  had  sooner  or  later  to  seek  safety  in 
exile  ;  while  others  who  would  fain  have  followed  in  the 
steps  of  Christ,  were  thwarted  on  every  side,  and  from 
the  smallness  of  their  numbers  proved  nearly  powerless. 
The  Latitudinarians — the  followers  of  Jeremy  Taylor — hi 
vain  strove  to  show  that  a  good  life  was  to  be  desired  even 
more  than  an  orthodox  belief,  that  a  broad-hearted  toler- 
ation could  alone  bring-  about  Christian  unity.  Thejf 
were  unable  to  stem  the  current  of  fierce,  selfish  intoler* 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  55 

ance,  of  Pharisaical  self-contentment,  of  blind  if»4:fference 
to  the  sufferings  of  others. 

The  country  was  drenched  with  the  blood  of  Roman 
Catholics,  barbarously  murdered  merely  for  their  opinions. 
The  prisons  were  crammed  with  Nonconformists,  eight 
thousand  of  whom  died  of  the  hardships  they  there  met 
with  in  tLe  miserable  time  which  elapsed  between  the 
Restoration  and  the  Revolution.  Worst  of  all,  there 
sprang  up  a  gross,  heartless,  selfish  materialism,  an 
Atheism  which,  compared  with  the  Secularism  of  modern 
times,  was  as  the  prodigal  wallowing  among  the  swine, 
to  the  prodigal  struggling  laboriously  to  his  Father. 

It  was  the  6th  of  November.  All  London  was  in  a 
state  of  tumult  and  commotion,  bells  were  ringing,  bon- 
fires preparing,  crowds  assembling  in  all  the  chief  thorough- 
fares. Gunpowder  Plot  Day  had  this  year  fallen  on  a  Sun- 
day, and  in  consequence  was  to  be  kept  on  the  succeed- 
ing day  instead.  Rumors  had  gone  abroad  that  the  King 
disapproved  of  the  observance,  and  would  fain  have 
stopped  it  altogether,  but  no  edict  had  been  published,  and 
the  rumor  only  served  to  stimulate  the  zeal  of  the  citizens, 
who  had  not  as  yet  recovered  from  the  panic  caused  by 
the  Popish  Plot. 

The  vast  majority  of  the  nation  still  believed  in  the  real- 
ity of  Gates'  revelations,  and  in  any  case  this  was  cer- 
tainly the  very  last  time  to  neglect  the  National  Thanks- 
giving Day.  The  'prentices  donned  their  best  clothes, 
and  sallied  forth  on  merry-making  intent ;  the  housewives, 
prepared  candles  stuck  in  clay  to  be  set  out  at  nightfall  on 
the  window-sills;  and  the  Temple  students,  with  scarcely 
an  exception,  turned  out  into  Fleet  Street  to  take  their  part 
in  the  night's  proceedings. 

At  one  of  the  chambers  in  King's,  Bench  Walk,  how- 
ever, Hugo  sat  buried  in  his  books,  not  feeling  at  all  in- 
clined to  stir  for  any  recollection  of  Guy  Fawkes,  and 
the  nation's  memorable  deliverance.  Randolph  was  out, 
and  was  not  likely  to  return  that  night ;  he  had  the  prem- 
ises to  himself,  and  was  blissfully  enjoying  the  peaceful 
quiet,  and  the  undivided  possession  of  the  lamp,  the 
table,  and  the  sea-coal  fire,  when  the  door  was  opened. 
He  looked  up  quickly,  not  feeling  at  all  inclined  to  welcome 
a  visitor,  but  only  Jeremiah  stood  there,  the  old  servant 
who  had  been  in  the  family  more  than  twenty  years,  and 
who  had  done  everything  for  Hugo  since  the  Great  Plague 


56  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

year,  when  father,  mother,  nurse,  indeed  all  the  house- 
hold save  the  two  brothers  and  the  old  servant,  had  been 
swept  away  in  less  than  a  week. 

Jeremiah  was  a  strongly-built,  hard-featured  man,  and 
at  first  sight  would  have  seemed  to  a  casual  observer  the 
very  last  man  to  accept  the  post  of  general  caretaker  to  a 
delicate  child  of  three  years  old,  just  recovering  from  an 
attack  of  the  deadly  malady.  He  had  proved,  however, 
the  most  faithful  and  the  most  devoted  attendant.  It  was 
to  Jeremiah  that  the  boy  had  invariably  turned  for  com- 
fort when  Randolph,  for  some  childish  fault  or  misad- 
venture, had  mercilessly  thrashed  him.  It  was  to  the  old 
man's  stimulating  stories  about  the  civil  war  that  he 
owed  a  vast  admiration  for  all  deeds  of  courage  and  en- 
durance, deeds  that  were  naturally  but  little  in  accord  with 
his  quiet  and  over-bookish  tendencies.  Jeremiah  was 
one  of  the  old  Cromwellian  soldiers,  and  had  fought  at 
Marston  Moor  and  at  many  other  bloody  encounters.  Dis- 
banded at  the  Restoration,  the  Ironsides  had  quietly  retired 
into  various  trades  and  services,  and  Jeremiah  had  faith- 
fully served  the  house  of  Wharncliffe,  and  had  proved 
the  best  influence  in  Hugo's  life. 

"Still  at  thy  books,  lad?"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  dis- 
approval. "  Thou'lt  never  be  a  man  of  action  it  thou'rt 
ever  reading." 

"We  can't  all  be  men  of  action,  Jerry,"  said  Hugo,  re- 
signing himself  to  the  interruption,  with  his  usual  sweet- 
ness of  temper.  "Nature  didn't  mean  us  all  for  Ironsides, 
and  you  well  know  that  you  will  never  turn  me  into  one. 
Draw  your  chair  up  and  fetch  your  pipe,  'tis  mighty  pleas- 
ant by  the  fire,  and  I'll  warrant  your  den  is  as  cold  as 
charity.  Randolph  will  not  be  back  to-night. " 

The  old  servant  drew  one  ot  the  heavy  oaken  chairs  to 
the  hearth,  shaking  his  head,  however,  in  a  meaning  way 
over  Hugo's  last  words. 

"  'T would  break  my  heart,  lad,"  he  said,  after  a  pause, 
"  wert  thou  to  take  to  such  doings." 

"Would  it?"  said  Hugo,  smiling  a  little.  "What 
a  staunch  old  Puritan  you  are,  Jerry  !  Well,  I  must  try 
not  to  break  your  heart  then. " 

"  Broad  is  the  road  to  destruction,  and  many  there  be 
that  walk  along  it,"  said  Jeremiah,  shaking  his  head. 

"Come  now,  Jerry,  don't  begin  a  second  book  of  Lam- 
mentations,  for  in  truth  one  is  quite  enough." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  57 

"  Broad  is  the  road,  and  with  your  guardian  leading 
the  way  I  fear  me  thoul't  follow." 

"  Now,  look  here,  Jerry  !  "  Hugo  started  to  his  feet,  and 
a  glow  of  color  overspread  his  usually  pale  face.  "There's 
just  one  thing  that  I'll  never  stand  from  you.  Say  what 
you  like  against  me,  but  as  to  my  brother  please  to  hold 
your  tongue.  I'll  not  hear  one  word  against  Randolph. 
Do  you  think  that  in  all  London  you  would  find  a  mastel 
whose  life  would  fit  in  with  your  rigid  notions? " 

"  Belike  not,"  said  the  old  servant,  sententiously. 

There  was  a  silence.  Hugo  speedily  repented  of  his 
momentary  anger. 

"I  have  vexed  you.  I  am  sorry,  *'  he  said.  "  Twas 
a  graceless  speech  from  one  whom  you  had  tutored.  But 
an  you  love  me,  Jerry,  speak  no  more  of  the  duchess  and 
my  brother.  As  for  me — I  think  you  may  trust  me  that 
I'll  not  break  your  heart  in  the  fashion  you  speak  of 
— I  would  sooner  break  my  own  any  day. ' ' 

Jerry's  stern  face  relaxed,  but  what  he  would  have  said 
in  reply  remained  forever  unknown,  for  as  he  was  about 
to  speak  there  was  a  knock  at  the  outer  door,  which  he 
hastened  to  open. 

A  rush  of  cold  air  from  the  staircase,  and  a  loud  cheer- 
ful voice  saluting  the  old  soldier,  then  a  vision  of  many- 
colored  raiment,  and  Denham's  merry  face. 

' '  You  old  hermit !  "  he  exclaimed.  '  'I  might  have  known 
I  should  find  you  up  to  the  eyes  in  books.  What,  man  ! 
have  you  forgot  that  'tis  Gunpowder  Plot  day,  and  the 
duty  of  all  good  Protestants  is  to  be  abroad  anathematiz- 
ing Pope  and  Devil." 

"They'll  do  it  well  enough  without  my  aid  I"  said 
Hugo,  yawning.  "And  of  all  things  I  hate  a  street 
uproar. " 

"Bookworm!  'tis  the  best  possible  thing  for  you. 
Come,  own  that  you've  not  stirred  abroad  this  day. " 

"Not  once  only  but  twice,"  said  Hugo,  smiling. 

"Ah,  I  can  guess  the  length  of  your  tether  though. 
From  King's  Bench  Walk  to  Pump  Court,  there  to  pore 
over  your  lessons  like  the  good  boy,  then  later  on  per- 
haps as  far  as  the  'Devil*  to  hear  the  news." 

"As  far  as  the  'Grecian,'"  corrected  Hugo. 

"  Marvellous  !  "  exclaimed  Denham.  "  Do  you  hear, 
Jerry,  your  young  master  has  actually  walked  nearly  to 
Temple  Bar  and  back.  Come  now.  Jerry,  you  back  my 


£&  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  K£ 

np,  and  tell  him  he  ought  to  sally  forth  this  fine  even* 
ing." 

"In  truth,  sir,  I  was  but  now  telling  him  he  would 
never  be  a  man  of  action,  if  he  did  naught  but  read, 
read  from  morn  till  night." 

Hugo  groaned,  and  tossed  away  his  books. 

"There's  a  conspiracy  between  you,"  he  said,  laugh- 
ing. "And  when  you  know  I  fought  a  duel  on  the  fifth 
of  last  month,  I  think  it's  hard  you  won't  leave  me  in  peace 
beyond  the  sixth  of  this  !  " 

So  saying  he  took  up  his  sword,  leisurely  proceeding 
to  fasten  his  baldrick,  while  Jeremiah  fetched  his  hat  and 
cloak  from  the  next  room. 

"Twill  do  thee  good,  lad,  'twill  do  theegood,"  said 
the  old  man,  as  he  opened  the  outer  door  for  the  two  to 
pass  out,  speaking  much  as  a  nurse  might  speak  while 
offering  medicine  to  a  reluctant  child. 

Passing  from  the  quiet  purlieus  of  the  Temple  into 
Fleet  Street  was  that  night  like  passing  from  a  peaceful 
paradise  into  a  pandemonium.  To  stir  was  almost  im- 
possible, so  dense  was  the  crowd,  and  had  it  not  been 
that  a  certain  weird  beauty  in  the  scene  touched  Hugo's 
ready  imagination,  he  would  speedily  have  retreated 
again,  to  avoid  the  pushing  and  jostling  which  to  one  of 
his  temperament  was  singularly  distasteful. 

But  there  was  undoubtedly  a  subtle  fascination  in  the 
dark  mass  of  spectators  and  pleasure-makers,  in  the  lurid 
glare  of  the  bonfire  already  kindled  over  against  the  Inner 
Temple  Gate,  in  the  gleaming  candles  set  out  in  all  the 
windows,  and  in  the  flaring  links  which  were  borne 
hither  and  thither  among  the  crowd.  Laughter  echoed 
here  and  there,  amid  the  roar  of  many  voices ;  oaths, 
jests,  questions,  and  sober  talk,  all  mingled  in  one  gen- 
eral medley,  and  all  more  or  less  overpowered  by  the  ever- 
recurring  chorus,  shouted  forth  with  untiring  energy  by 
every  one  possessed  of  zeal  and  good  lungs — 

a  Remember,  remember  the  fifth  of  November, 
Gunpowder  treason  and  plot. 
I  see  no  reason  why  gunpowder  treason 
Should  ever  be  forgot. 

Holloa,  boys !     Holloa,  boys  I     Make  the  bells  ring, 
Holloa,  boys !     Holloa,  boys  I     God  save  the  King !  " 

And  in  truth  the  bells  did  ring  with  right  good  will, 
Well-nigh  deafening  every  one,  till  the  signal  was  given 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  59 

that  the  procession  was  drawing  near,  and  then  the  noise 
of  the  multitude  became  slightly  subdued  ;  it  was  just  pos- 
sible to  hear  the  trumpets  and  drums  which  formed  part  of 
the  ceremony. 

Denham  and  Hugo,  who  were  standing  close  to  Tem- 
ple Bar,  had  the  benefit  of  a  close  and  prolonged  inspection 
of  the  long  procession,  for  on  the  eastern  side  a  halt 
was  ordered,  while  before  the  statue  of  "Good  Queen 
Bess  "  one  of  the  gorgeously-arrayed  performers  sang  a 
patriotic  song,  extolling  the  memory  of  the  good  Queen, 
the  Protestant  religion,  and  the  Reformation,  denouncing 
all  "Popish  knaves,"  lamenting  the  unfortunate  Sir  Ed- 
mondsbury  Godfrey,  and  warning  all  good  citizens  to 
shun  the  Pope  and  his  boon  companion.  In  the  mean- 
time, surrounded  by  hundreds  of  torch-bearers,  heralded 
by  minstrels  and  trumpeters,  the  poor  old  Pope,  in  a 
most  life-like  effigy,  sat  aloft  in  his  chair  of  state,  covered 
with  scarlet,  richly  adorned  with  gold  fringe  and  embroid- 
ery. On  his  shoulder  sat  a  dwarf  who  had  consented  to 
play  the  role  of  "Devil,"  and  who  certainly  looked  most 
diabolical  as  he  climbed  hither  and  thither,  whispering 
evil  counsel  in  the  ears  of  the  effigy,  first  on  one  side, 
then  on  the  other.  Immediately  behind  the  Pope  there 
followed  a  bier  on  which  was  laid  an  effigy  of  the  magis- 
trate who  had  been  murdered  immediately  after  receiving 
Gates'  first  revelation  of  the  so-called  Popish  Plot. 

"Poor  Sir  Edmondsbury  !  "  said  Hugo,  unable  to  help 
smiling  a  little.  "  I  should  have  thought  that  by  this 
time  they  had  used  him  often  enough  at  these  shows. 
Why  can't  they  let  the  poor  man  rest  in  peace  ? " 

"  He  has  but  been  dead  a  matter  of  four  years  !  "  said 
Denham,  laughing.  "And  you  maybe  sure  that  Shaftes- 
bury  has  no  intention  of  laying  aside  his  best  puppet 
yet  awhile.  Hark,  how  the  people  groan,  even  now  ! 
Never  was  such  a  murder  as  that  for  stirring  up  the  pop- 
ulace. " 

"I  thought  Shaftesbury  had  lost  his  last  chance,"  said 
Hugo.  "Does  any  one  know  where  he  has  taken  him- 
self to  ? " 

"  Some  say  that  he  is  in  Holland,  others  that  he  is  hid- 
ing in  the  city  and  devising  mischief  in  his  heart.  But  no 
one  doubts  that  he  has  yet  a  finger  in  the  pie.  Depend 
upon  it,  he  and  his  have  pulled  the  strings  which  make 


60  Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

these  puppets  dance  to-night.  A  notable  Protestant  is  my 
Lord  Shaftesbury  !  " 

By  this  time  the  procession  was  moving,  and  the  Pope, 
the  Devil,  Sir  Edmondsbury  Godfrey,  the  minstrels,  the 
trumpeters,  the  drummers,  the  torch-bearers,  followed  by 
a  disorderly  rabble,  passed  on  again.  Denham  and  Hugo 
were  borne  on  by  the  crowd,  whether  they  would  or  not, 
and  were  just  in  time  to  see  the  Devil  leap  lightly  from  the 
shoulder  of  his  Holiness  as  the  huge  effigy  was  snatched 
down  from  its  lofty  throne,  and  hurled  into  the  midst  of 
the  bonfire.  Then  there  rose  a  chorus  of  joyful  acclama- 
tion, storms  of  cheering  and  huzzaing,  while  the  dwarf 
in  the  character  of  his  Satanic  majesty  danced  a  hornpipe 
round  the  bonfire,  jeering  at  the  sufferings  of  his  van- 
quished servant,  who  crackled  gruesomely  in  the  flames. 
After  this  there  ensued  a  regular  Saturnalia,  the  result  of 
which  was  that  many  found  themselves  in  prison  that 
night,  and  that  strict  orders  were  immediately  issued  by  the 
King  that  the  iyth  of  the  month,  Queen  Elizabeth's  birth 
day,  was  not  to  be  observed  at  all. 

"By-the-bye,"  said  Denham,  as  they  struggled  along 
through  the  riotous  crowd,  ' '  I  was  to  ask  you  to  sup 
with  us  ;  my  father  says  you  have  deserted  us  of  late. 
To-night  Colonel  Sydney  will  be  with  him,  and  he  would 
fain  have  you  two  meet." 

Hugo  smiled.  It  amused  him  somehow  to  think  that 
Sir  William  Denham  should  think  him  worth  introducing 
to  any  one,  least  of  all  to  such  a  man  as  Colonel  Sydney. 

"I  have  heard  Colonel  Sydney's  praises  sung  by 
Jeremiah  ever  since  I  can  remember,"  he  said.  "At 
least,  I  suppose  you  mean  him  that  was  son  to  the  late 
Lord  Leicester. " 

"Ay,  he's  the  man.  My  father  is  wondrous  pleased 
with  him.  In  politics  of  course  they  are  poles  apart,  but 
my  father  is  too  much  of  a  scientific  hermit  to  care  a  rush 
for  that.  For  my  part  I  can  see  naught  in  Colonel  Sydney 
more  than  other  folk,  save  that  he  is  mighty  stern.  My 
father  says  that  both  you  and  he  are  anachronisms,  and 
therefore  he  would  have  you  meet. " 

"How  anachronisms  ?  "  said  Hugo,  laughing. 

"He  has  an  idea  that  you  should  rightly  have  been 
born  two  or  three  hundred  years  hence.  That  in  fact  you 
are  both  of  you  too  far  ahead  of  your  surroundings  to  live 
comfortably  in  this  wicked  world.  * 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  6l 

Hugo  smiled  and  disclaimed  any  wish  to  postpone  his 
life  for  so  long  a  period.  With  all  its  faults  and  imper- 
fections he  clung  to  his  own  time,  and  would  not  have 
exchanged  it  for  any  dim  advanced  future  had  it  been  in 
his  power  to  do  so.  For  in  truth,  when  brought  face  to 
face  with  the  question,  few  people,  even  if  they  are  miser- 
able, would  exchange  their  own  individuality,  and  still 
fewer  would  accept  that  magic  potion  which  would  enable 
the  partaker  to  wake  up  in  a  different  century,  even  though 
their  own  century  be  chiefly  distinguished  by  wicked- 
ness. Universal  is  the  feeling  that  we  would — 

"  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of." 

Sir  William  Denham's  house  was  in  Norfolk  Street,  and 
the  two  friends,  having  at  length  pushed  through  the 
dense  crowd  by  St.  Clement  Danes,  and  struggled  along  the 
Strand,  were  not  sorry  to  find  themselves  in  smooth  waters 
again.  The  distant  roar  of  the  multitude  was  to  be  heard 
even  in  the  house,  but  it  only  served  to  accentuate  the  quiet 
within.  This  house  was  Hugo's  ideal  of  comfort,  and 
was  indeed  almost  the  only  home  he  knew.  The  Den- 
hams  were  all  fond  of  him,  and  fortunately  Randolph  ap- 
proved of  the  friendship,  only  objecting  a  little  when 
he  thought  Sir  William  was  endeavoring  to  turn  Hugo 
into  a  man  of  science  rather  than  a  man  of  the  world. 

The  withdrawing-room  looked  very  comfortable  that 
cold  November  evening,  after  the  murky  darkness  of 
Norfolk  Street.  It  made  a  very  pleasant  picture  with  it? 
polished  floor,  its  many  colored  eastern  curtains,  its 
Japanese  cabinets,  its  blazing  fire  of  logs,  beside  which 
sat  Lady  Denham,  with  her  sweet  plac  id  face  and  snowy 
curls.  A  little  spaniel  on  the  hearthrug  sprang  up  and 
barked  at  them,  and  was  called  to  order  by  Mary  Denham, 
Sir  William's  niece  and  ward,  who  sat,  embroidery  in 
hand,  close  to  her  aunt  On  the  other  side  of  the  hearth 
Sir  William,  with  his  kindly  wrinkled  old  face,  was  talk 
ing  eagerly  to  a  stranger  who  sat  in  the  great  arm-chair. 

Hugo  knew  that  this  must  be  Colonel  Algernon  Sydney, 
the  anachronism,  and  he  looked  at  him  seitrchmgly.  He 
saw  a  man  of  about  sixty,  in  a  brown  doublet  with  silver 
facings  and  cords,  a  plain  white  <  ravat  tied  witli  two 
small  tassels,  but  not  boasting  the  smallest  piece  of  lace, 
and  a  dark  brown  periwig,  not  so  long  as  those  which  had 


62  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

more  recently  come  into  fashion.  These  lesser  details 
came  to  his  notice  in  the  first  glance,  afterwards  they 
sank  into  utter  insignificance  ;  he  could  see  nothing  but 
the  face — the  strangely  fascinating  face  which  from  that 
day  forth  was  to  become  to  him  what  no  other  face  on 
earth  could  ever  be.  In  expression  it  was  sad  and  some- 
what stern,  particularly  in  profile,  when  the  strongly- 
marked  Roman  features  stood  out  in  relief.  The  forehead 
was  broad  and  high,  and  slightly  receding,  the  whole  face 
thin  and  long,  with  high  cheek  bones  and  a  pointed  chin. 
He  wore  a  slight  moustache,  and  there  was  something 
in  the  pose  of  his  lips  which  betokened  an  impatient 
temper  that  would  not  easily  brook  contradiction.  This 
was,  however,  to  some  extent  contradicted  by  his  eyes, 
which  were  large,  keen,  and  thoughtful,  dark  in  color, 
and  in  shape  singularly  beautiful. 

He  raised  his  curved  eyebrows  a  little  as  Denham  and 
his  friend  approached,  an  involuntary  sign  of  surprise 
escaping  him  as  he  looked  at  Hugo.  Indeed,  so  beauti- 
ful and  so  strange  in  expression  was  the  boy's  face,  that 
very  few  could  have  avoided  such  a  gesture. 

"Allow  me  to  introduce  to  you  our  friend  Mr.  Wharn- 
cliffe,"  said  Sir  William,  when  the  ladies  had  been  saluted. 
"Hugo — Colonel  Sydney." 

Hugo  bowed  low. 

' '  Your  name  is  familiar  to  me, "  said  Sydney.  ' '  Though 
how  I  know  not.  Do  you  not  come  of  a  Suffolk  family?  " 

"We  are  distantly  related  to  the  Suffolk  WharnclirTes, 
sir,"  replied  Hugo,  and  something  in  his  manner  showed 
Sydney  that  he  had  touched  upon  an  embarrassing  subject. 

"Twas  a  Suffolk  Wharncliffe  that  caused  him  his  first 
duel,"  said  Rupert,  laughing. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  Sir  William.  "  I've  been  hearing  about 
that,  Hugo.  Now  I  should  have  thought  you  were  one  of 
the  few  of  his  majesty's  subjects  who  might  be  trusted  to 
obey  the  edict  of  '79." 

"The  duel  was  not  of  my  seeking,  sir,"  said  Hugo, 
coloring. 

"No,  no,"  said  Sir  William,  smiling.  "  We  have  heard 
the  rights  of  the  story  from  Rupert  here ;  you  did  well, 
lad,  very  well,  and  Sir  Peregrine  deserved  all  you  gave  him. 
How  fares  it  with  him  now,  have  you  heard  of  him  ?  " 

"  Randolph  heard,'  this  day  was  a  se'nnight,  and  he  was 
hen  walking  again.  I'm  glad  'twas  no  worse." 


7JV  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  63 

"You  were  less  lucky  than  I  was  in  my  only  challenge," 
said  Sydney,  who  had  been  keenly  watching  the  lad  while 
he  spoke.  " 'Twas  over  in  Holland,  and  our  seconds 
managed  to  patch  up  a  peace  on  honorable  terms.  A 
barbarous  custom  is  the  duel,  but  Royal  edicts  will  not 
put  an  end  to  it." 

"Do  you  think,  sir,  that  it  will  ever  be  stopped  ?  "  asked 
Hugo. 

"  For  certain,"  said  Sydney.  "Not  by  the  influence  of 
his  majesty,  but  by  the  slow  development  of  civilization. 
As  yet,  you  see,  we  are  half  barbarians,  and  sadly  want- 
ing in  common  sense." 

"When  folks  in  general  learn  something  of  science," 
said  Sir  William,  who  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  referring 
to  his  hobby. 

"When  every  Englishman  has  grasped  the  thought  that 
he  owes  something  to  his  country, "  said  Sydney.  "  When 
human  life  is  rightfully  valued,  because  human  rights  have 
been  boldly  claimed,  and  human  duties  realized." 

"But  how  will  claiming  of  rights  touch  the  matter  ?" 
asked  Hugo,  instinctively  turning  to  Sydney  as  though  he 
were  some  oracle. 

' '  In  this  way, "  said  Sydney.  ' '  A  nation  grows  great 
just  in  proportion  as  the  people  making  up  the  nation 
grow  wise  enough  to  do  their  duty,  and  bold  enough  to 
claim  their  rights.  Take  as  example  any  given  case,  and 
perchance  you'll  see  better  what  I  mean.  If  Lady  Den- 
ham  and  her  niece  will  pardon  us,  and  since  they  are  ex- 
ceptions to  the  rule  I  think  they  will,  we  will  take  the 
position  at  present  given  to  women.  Women  are  but 
treated  as  the  toys  of  men,  treated  as  though  they  were  fit 
only  to  satisfy  the  senses  and  maintain  our  species. 
How  great  an  ignorance  is  this  !  Who  doth  not  know 
that  every  age  hath  produced  some  women  very  excel- 
lent in  those  things  for  which  men  most  prize  themselves  ? 
And  yet  men  despise  them."* 

"And  is  this  for  want  of  claiming  of  rights  ?"  said 
Hugo. 

"It  is  so  in  great  measure.  Women  have  not  claimed 
those  helps  from  study  and  education  which  are  freely  given 
to  men,  but  in  the  natural  powers  of  the  mind  they  are 
noways  inferior.  Indeed,  the  well-composedness  of  a 

"•  See  Algernon  Sydney's  Essay  on  Lave. 


64  W  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

woman's  judgment  often  moves  one  to  envy.  In  my  own 
opinion  to  whatsoever  they  apply  themselves,  either 
learning,  business,  domestic  or  public  government,  they 
show  themselves  at  least  equal  to  our  sex.  But  naught 
can  be  done  till  in  the  slow  development  of  the  ages  they 
awake  to  a  sense  of  their  duties  and  of  their  rights ;  and 
until  men  grow  purer  and  women  more  cultivated,  there 
is  but  a  sorry  outlook  for  this  country  of  ours. " 

Hugo  was  silent,  musing  over  the  very  novel  ideas 
which  had  been  presented  to  him.  The  doctrine  of  claim- 
ing of  rights  was  little  in  accordance  with  his  character  or 
his  education,  while  as  to  perceiving  of  duties,  it  had  been 
dinned  into  him  from  his  very  childhood  that  the  whole 
duty  of  man  was  passive  obedience. 

Supper  was  just  then  announced,  and  they  went  down 
below  to  the  parlor. 

"  But  were  we  all  to  learn  languages  and  science,  and 
all  things  that  make  up  a  good  education,"  said  Mary 
Denham,  "  who  would  order  the  house,  and  make  the 
preserves,  and  oversee  the  linen  ?  " 

"And  amuse  the  men,"  interposed  Rupert. 

Sydney  smiled. 

"There  must  ever  be  much  in  either  sex  that  the  other 
sex  cannot  perform,"  he  said.  "We  would  not  if  we 
could  turn  women  into  she-men  ;  all  that  the  wise  would 
claim  is  ,that  woman  be  no  longer  treated  as  a  toy,  as  an 
inferior,  and  that  man  no  longer  ape  a  superiority 
which  exists  merely  in  his  own  conceit.  As  to  the  linen 
and  the  preserves,  why,  Sir  Thomas  More  found  his  chief- 
est  comfort  In  a  daughter  who  was  a  prodigy  of  learning, 
and  I'll  warrant  Mr.  Roper  did  not  find  his  household  ill- 
governed." 

"In  truth,"  said  Lady  Denham,  many  a  maid  would 
be  glad  enough  to  learn  more  in  these  days,  but,  you  see, 
the  men  like  it  not." 

Sydney  laughed. 

' '  Ay,  truly  they  like  it  not,  because  they  fear  their  boasted 
superiority  would  quickly  be  ended.  Be  advised  by  me, 
Mistress  Mary,  study  science  with  your  uncle,  and  lose 
not  your  chances  of  learning  for  the  sake  of  a  few  gibes 
from  Whitehall  idlers. " 

"Defending  the  cause  of  women,  Colonel  Sydney,  you 
are  not  caring  for  your  own  wants,"  said  Lady  Denham. 
"  Let  me  give  you  some  of  this  red-deer  pie." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  6$ 

"Of  my  own  making,"  said  Mary,  with  a  little  mis- 
chievous gleam  in  her  eyes.  She  was  a  brunette  with 
bright  dark  eyes,  a  rich  glowing  complexion  and  brown 
hair  curled  all  over  her  head,  after  the  fashion  of  the 
period.  Her  face  was  sweet,  pure,  and  slightly  proud. 
Hugo  admired  her  greatly.  For  the  last  two  years  there 
had  existed  between  them  a  sort  of  Platonic  friendship,  an 
admirable  thing,  no  doubt,  for  Hugo,  but  for  the  girl  a 
doubtful  experiment.  She  seemed,  however,  so  much 
older  than  Hugo,  though  they  were  in  truth  of  the  same 
age,  that  no  one  dreamed  that  her  friendship  could  possi- 
bly develop  into  love,  and  her  aunt  was  only  too  glad  to 
have  Hugo  as  much  as  possible  about  the  house,  because 
she  knew  well  enough  that  he  was  almost  the  only  steady 
companion  whom  Rupert  cared  for. 

Mary  knew  what  no  one  else  in  the  world  knew — at 
least  in  Hugo's  world — that  he  had  warned  the  conventi- 
clers.  She  had  heard  the  whole  story  of  his  hurried  run 
from  the  church  to  the  barn,  of  how  he  had  met  Randolph 
afterwards  in  the  churchyard  just  as  the  service  was 
over,  and  had  escaped  without  so  much  as  a  question, 
and  of  how  from  that  day  to  this  no  allusion  what- 
ever had  been  made  to  the  heretical  kinsfolk  down  in 
Suffolk.  She  had  heard  more  about  the  duel  than  any  one 
else,  and  she  had  elicited  a  little — a  very  little — informa- 
tion about  Joyce.  She  had  a  restless  longing  to  learn 
more  about  this  rescued  maiden,  and  this  evening,  as  they 
went  upstairs  again  after  supper,  she  hazarded  a  question. 

' '  Did  Sir  Peregrine  say  naught  of  fair  Mistress  Wharn- 
cliffe?"  she  asked,  with  a  smile.  "Methinks  he  should 
at  least  have  mentioned  the  cause  of  all  the  strife." 

Hugo  was  taken  by  surprise,  and  to  say  the  truth  had 
been  at  that  very  moment  wondering  what  Joyce  would 
think  of  Colonel  Algernon  Sydney's  notions  as  to  women. 
He  started  and  colored. 

"  I  saw  not  the  letter,"  he  replied,  hurriedly.  "What 
he  may  have  said  of  her  I  know  not,  but  I  trust  it  was 
not  much.  I  would  not  have  so  much  as  her  name  fall 
from  his  vile  pen  an  it  could  be  helped  ! " 

Never  before  had  she  seen  Hugo  so  visibly  discom- 
posed ;  with  a  little  sigh  she  wondered  whether  he  would 
mind  at  all  what  this  Suffolk  squire  might  happen  to  write 
about  her.  It  did  not  at  all  trouble  him  apparently  that 
she  should  be  persecuted  by  the  attentions  of  men  quite 


66  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

as  bad,  doubtless,  though  not  so  unmannerly,  as  Sfe 
Peregrine  Blake.  Her  thoughts  wandered  back  to  Ru- 
pert's description  of  the  rescued  maiden — "  devilish  pretty, 
with  blue  eyes  " — she  wished  with  all  her  heart  that  her 
own  eyes  were  not  so  hopelessly  and  irretrievably  brown. 

"  Come,  Hugo,"  said  Sir  William  ;  "  you  must  not  cheat 
us  of  a  song.  I  hear  you  have  a  manuscript  one  by  Mr. 
Purcell.  What  do  you  think,  Sydney,  of  our  young  com- 
poser ? " 

"  He  seems  to  be  nearer  to  the  mark  of  the  Italian  musi- 
cians than  any  English  song-writer,"  said  Sydney.  "1 
hear  he  is  organist  at  Westminster  Abbey.  Is  that  so  ?  " 

"Ay,  'tis  true,"  said  Sir  William.  "The  King  also  ap- 
pointed him  last  July  to  the  Chapel  Royal.  He  is  a  fine 
player,  and  worth  your  hearing." 

"Maybe,"  said  Sydney.  "But  I  do  not  affect  public 
worship,  least  of  all  in  one  of  the  Chapels  Royal.  Mr. 
Wharncliffe  will  doubtless  render  his  music  well.  He  has 
the  face  of  a  musician." 

"Ay,  indeed,"  said  Sir  William,  lowering  his  voice. 
"When  a  trifle  older  I  doubt  not  he  will  have  the  best 
tenor  in  all  London.  Mary,  do  you  accompany  him  on 
the  spinet,  it  goes  better  so  than  with  his  lute." 

Rupert  was  lighting  the  candles,  and  Mary  had  already 
seated  herself  at  the  spinet  which  stood  at  the  far  end  of 
the  room.  Soon  the  first  bars  of  an  exquisite  air  rang  out 
into  the  silence,  and  then  a  voice,  marvellously  sweet  and 
clear,  sang  Purcell's  new  song.  Never  before  had  Mary 
Denham  been  so  well  satisfied  with  the  power  and  expres- 
sion which  Hugo  threw  into  the  music  ;  in  former  times 
she  had  been  wont  to  scold  him  for  the  want  of  life  and 
animation  in  his  singing,  to-night  she  felt  instead  a  curious 
pain  at  her  heart,  as  she  listened  to  the  wild  words  and 
impassioned  music. 

"  I  attempt  from  love's  sickness  to  fly  in  vain, 
'  Since  I  am,  myself,  my  own  fever  and  pain. 
No  more  now,  fond  heart,  with  pride  should  we  swell, 
Thou  canst  not  raise  forces  enough  to  rebeL 
I  attempt  from  love's  sickness  to  fly  in  vain, 
Since  I  am,  myself,  my  own  fever  and  pain. 
For  love  has  more  power  and  less  mercy  than  fate, 
To  make  us  seek  ruin,  and  love  those  that  hate. 
I  attempt  from  love's  sickness  to  fly  in  vain, 
Since  I  am,  myself,  my  own  fever  and  pain.' " 

There  was  complete   silence  among  the  listeners,  Sif 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  67 

William  wagged  his  foot  in  time  to  the  music,  Lady  Den- 
ham  laid  aside  her  embroidery  and  sat  idle,  Sydney  leant 
back  in  the  great  arm-chair  beside  the  fire,  his  keen, 
thoughtful  eyes  fixed  upon  the  singer,  but  rather  as  though 
he  were  thinking  of  the  lad  himself  than  of  the  song.  He 
had  taken  a  strange  fancy  to  Hugo,  strange,  because  in 
almost  every  point  their  characters  were  so  diametrically 
opposite.  Sydney  unbending  and  stern,  Hugo  yielding 
and  sweet-tempered,  the  elder  man  worn  with  the  hard- 
ships he  had  lived  through,  the  younger  fresh  and  unsul- 
lied, knowing  as  yet  nothing  of  life  and  but  little  of  care. 

Great  differences  often  prove,  however,  a  curious  source 
of  attraction,  and  in  this  case,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
Sydney  thought  to  himself — "  Had  I  had  a  son  I  would 
have  had  him  like  that !  " 

He  had,  however,  neither  wife  nor  child,  most  of  his 
kinsfolk  were  alienated  from  him,  and  the  life  he  had  lived 
had,  to  a  great  extent,  unfitted  him  for  forming  many- 
friendships.  Old  age  was  not  so  very  far  off  now,  and  its 
advance  found  him  lonely  and  isolated,  with  countless 
foes,  and  but  few  friends  on  whom  he  could  thoroughly 
rely.  It  was  as  Sir  William  had  said — he  v/as  an  anachron- 
ism !  Like  all  men  who  are  in  advance  of  their  age — all 
honest  and  outspoken  men,  at  least — he  had  met  with 
much  bitter  opposition,  also  he  had  apparently  failed,  and 
that  is  a  hard  fate  for  one  of  his  disposition.  He  had 
failed  to  do  much  for  the  country  he  loved  so  passionately, 
he  had  failed  to  leave  his  mark  on  his  generation,  he  had 
failed  in  winning  love,  or  confidence,  or  distinction. 
Watching  Hugo,  he  fell  to  thinking  of  his  own  youth — his 
whole  life  rose  in  vision  before  him. 

Good  God  1  What  hopes  had  been  his  when  in  his  nine- 
teenth year  he  had  first  been  put  in  command  of  a  troop 
of  horse  1  Again,  what  dreams  of  a  grand  tuture  for  his 
country  had  come  to  him  three  years  later,  when,  the 
'struggle  between  King  and  Parliament  having  begun  in 
good  earnest,  he  had  volunteered  his  services  in  the  Par- 
liamentary army  I  How  sweet  had  been  the  toilsome 
campaign,  the  wounds,  the  hardships  illumined  ever  with 
the  thought  of  the  nation's  liberties,  which  must  be  bought 
at  any  price  !  But  victory  had  come  with  disappointment 
stalking  at  her  heels. 

Another  scene  rose  before  him — the  painted  chamber 
at  Westminster — a  number  of  men  eagerly  discussing  the 


J£  IN  THE  oOLDEN  DA  KS. 

fete  of  the  King— he  himself  full  of  dislike  to  all  violence., 
wishing  only  that  Charles  might  be  deposed  and  banished 
by  act  of  Parliament,  and  in  vain  urging  upon  Cromwell 
and  Bradshaw  that  the  King  could  be  tried  by  no  Court, 
and  that  no  man  living  could  legally  be  tried  by  that  Court, 
Again  he  saw  the  looks  of  aversion  and  suspicion  on  the 
faces  of  all  present  as  he  pleaded  for  his  bitterest  enemy, 
claimed  justice  for  his  country's  foe.  Again  Cromwell's 
words  rang  in  his  ears — "  I  tell  you  we  will  cut  off  his 
head  with  the  crown  upon  it !  " — again  he  heard  his  own 
reply  as  he  quitted  the  assembly  never  to  return — "You 
may  take  your  own  course,  I  cannot  stop  you  ;  but  I  will 
keep  myself  clean  from  having  any  hand  in  this  business." 

The  scene  changed  ; — he  was  at  quiet  Penshurst  walk- 
ing in  the  park,  and  one  brought  him  word  of  the  King's 
death.  Illegal  as  he  deemed  the  sentence,  the  doom  had 
seemed  to  him  but  just.  It  was  necessary  that  Charles 
should  be  reminded  that  by  the  ancient  law  of  the  land 
an  English  king  receives  his  right  to  reign  from  the  will 
of  the  people,  that  he  had  been  "therein  intrusted  with  a 
limited  power  to  govern  by  and  according  to  the  laws  of 
the  land,  and  not  otherwise. "  The  King  had  broken  his 
trust,  had  done  his  best  to  ruin  the  country,  had  laid  upon 
the  nation  a  yoke  which  could  not  be  borne — certainly  .£ 
treason  ever  merited  death  it  was  his  treason.  B  ,  as 
civilization  develops,  the  question  must  recur  ag-inand 
agr.in  :  Has  any  human  being  the  right  in  any  circum 
stances  to  take  the  life  of  another  ? 

Then  he  wandered  on  through  the  years  of  disappoint- 
ment which  had  followed,  recalling  Cromwell's  patriotic 
zeal  and  wonderful  power,  recalling,  too,  the  impossibility 
of  working  with  one  who,  in  spite  of  all  his  virtues,  was 
no  Republican  but  a  tyrant.  Again  he  was  in  the  House 
of  Commons,  and  a  man  in  plain  black  clothes  and  gray 
stockings  was  walking  passionately  to  and  fro  with  his 
hat  on,  upbraiding  the  members.  He  could  see  once 
more  the  sudden  entry  of  the  musketeers,  the  hurried  dis- 
persion of  the  members — hear  once  more  the  peremptory 
Command  to  himself  to  come  down,  and  on  his  refusal 
could  feel  again  the  hands  of  Harrison  and  Wortley  on  his 
shoulders  as  they  pushed  him  out  of  his  place  in  the  House, 
and  in  fact  out  of  public  life  altogether,  for  five  long  years. 
Once  more  hopes  had  arisen,  once  more  he  was  actively 
al  work,  carrying  on  negotiations  between  Sweden  anci 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  6$ 

Denmark.  The  Restoration  had,  however,  dashed  all  his 
hopes  to  the  ground,  and  after  that  there  came  only  a 
vision  of  weary  years  of  exile — wanderings  in  Germany, 
Italy,  France,  homeless,  friendless,  often  well-nigh  penni- 
less, in  constant  danger  of  assassination,  and  ever  with 
the  knowledge  that  the  country  for  which  he  had  fought, 
and  bled,  and  suffered,  was  going  to  ruin. 

Well,  his  exile  was  ended,  and  he  was  by  an  English 
hearth  again,  able  to  watch  the  ruin  of  his  country  yet 
more  closely. 

1 '  A  sweet  song  t  A  charming  song  ! "  exclaimed  Lady 
Denham.  "Let  us  have  one  more,  Hugo.  It  is  long 
since  we  heard  you. " 

Hugo  sang  "In  Woodstock  Town/'  and  this  time 
Sydney  listened  to  him. 

"I  have  not  heard  such  singing  since  I  was  in  Rome," 
he  said  at  the  close.  "There  was  at  that  time  a  tenor, 
Geronimo  by  name,  who  had  a  voice  much  like  yours. 
Do  you  sing  Italian  music  ?  " 

"  I  do  at  times  to  the  King;  it  pleases  him  more  than 
our  Englioh  music,"  said  Hugo. 

Sybnoy'c  face  darkened.  He  made  no  reply,  however, 
and  shortly  after  the  servant  came  to  announce  that  Jere- 
miah waited  below,  and  had  brought  a  message  to  his 
master. 

^Hugo,  knowing  that  the  message  was  probably  from 
his  brother,  hastened  down.  In  a  few  minutes  he  re- 
turned to  the  withdrawing-room,  evidently  not  much 
pleased  with  the  news  Jeremiah  had  brought  him. 

"I  must  bid  you  good-night,"  he  said,  approaching 
Lady  Denham.  "The  King  commands  my  presence  at 
Whitehall." 

"  We  must  see  more  of  one  another,"  said  Sydney,  as 
he  bade  him  farewell —  a  speech  which  made  every  pulse 
in  Hugo's  body  beat  at  double  time,  for  already  Sydney 
had  become  his  hero  of  heroes. 

"To  think  that  such  as  he  must  go  to  Whiienall '  '*  said 
Sydney,  when  the  door  had  closed  behincj  nim.  "What 
are  his  people  about  that  they  permit  it  ?  " 

"It  is  his  brother's  doingo,"  said  Sir  William.  "A 
strange  man  is  Wharncliffe,  one  of  the  Duchess  of  Cleve- 
land's devotees.  According  to  Hugo,  that  is  his  sole 
weakness,  however.  He  is  a  bitter  sort  of  a  fellow,  bv?t 
somehow  the  lad  is  mightily  fond  of  him," 


THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 


"And  he  of +he  lad?" 

"I  scarcely  know,"  said  Lady  Denham.  "He  is  very 
stern  with  him,  and  at  times  I  fancy  that  he  really  only 
cares  for  him  so  long  as  he  proves  useful." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AT   WHITER  ALL. 

"  I  need  not  be  ashamed  of  your  Majesty,  praised  be  Got,  so  long  as 
youv  Majesty  is  an  honest  man." 

King  Henry  V. 

THE  great  gallery  at  Whitehall  presented  that  evening 
its  usual  aspect  of  splendor,  gayety,  and  vice.  It  was 
ablaze  with  candles,  and  crowded  with  people,  who,  in 
their  rich  and  gay-colored  clothes,  made  the  place  look 
like  an  immense  flower  garden.  Gostling,  the  celebrated 
bass,  was  singing  a  song  which  no  modern  audience 
would  tolerate,  and  Signer  Giovanni  Baptista  Draghi — 
dubbed  for  con  venience'sake  "John  Baptist," — was  accom- 
panying him  on  the  harpsichord.  A  number  of  courtiers 
were  sitting  round  a  table  playing  at  chess,  with  an 
immense  pile  of  gold  before  them.  The  Queen  with  two 
of  her  ladies  sat  apart  playing  her  favorite  game  of  Ombre. 
A  group  of  idlers  clustered  together  in  one  corner  to  listen 
to  the  latest  lampoon.  The  rest  talked,  jested,  flirted, 
and  made  merry.  The  place  was  very  hot,  coming  in- 
deed from  the  sharp  November  air  outside  it  seemed  to 
Hugo  stifling,  also  there  was  something  about  the  moral 
atmosphere  which  always  oppressed  him.  He  was  never 
happy  at  Whitehall,  never  in  harmony  with  his  surround- 
ings. These  people  lived  such  a  different  life,  thought 
such  different  thoughts,  cared  for  such  different  things, 
that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  find  anything  in  common 
with  them,  nor  did  he  trouble  himself  to  try  much,  he  was 
too  young,  and  at  present  too  well-satisfied  with  a  quiet 
•tudious  "  laisser-aller  "  kind  of  life.  That  he  owed  any 
sort  of  duty  to  those  he  met  did  not  occur  to  him.  He 
went  to  Whitehall  because  it  was  his  brother's  wish  :  he 
sang  his  best  to  please  Randolph ;  he  was  quiet  and 
courteous,  because  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  be  any- 
thing but  a  perfect  gentleman  ;  and  he  never,  even  at 


Uf  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  71 

home,  showed  his  dislike  to  the  Whitehall  evenings,  be- 
cause he  was  philosophic,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  taking 
things  calmly.  But  the  people  he  met  were  to  him  only 
like  the  puppets  in  a  show,  and  puppets  of  whom  he 
rather  wearied.  He  rarely  considered  them  as  actual  men 
and  women. 

In  spite  of  this  he  was,  strangely  enough,  already  a 
favorite  at  the  Court.  People  liked  him  because  he  was 
original,  not  quite  like  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  fresh,  and 
unspoilt,  and  void  of  the  smallest  particle  of  conceit 
They  amused  themselves  with  seeing  how  he  would  take 
things,  how  he  would  dexterously  avoid  singing  some 
lewd  song,  even  when  the  King  asked  for  it,  how  he 
would  adroitly  parry  the  questionable  jests  of  the  wits, 
how  above  all  he  adored  his  brother,  and  cared  for  nothing, 
so  long  as  he  was  secure  of  his  approval. 

This  evening  as  usual  it  was  not  towards  the  King  that 
he  looked  with  any  apprehension.  He  looked  instead  at 
Randolph  to  see  whether  he  were  vexed  at  his  delay.  He 
had  it  is  true  made  all  speed  from  Sir  William  Denham's, 
had  rushed  into  his  Court  dress  in  the  space  often  minutes, 
and  had  hurried  to  Whitehall  as  fast  as  possible.  But  then 
there  was  no  knowing  how  slow  Jeremiah  might  have 
been  in  bringing  the  message,  for  if  there  was  one  place 
the  old  servant  hated  his  coming  to  it  was  the  Court 

Randolph  was  standing  not  far  from  the  King  among  a 
group  of  courtiers,  idly  leaning  against  the  pedestal  of  a 
statue,  and  combing  his  periwig  with  a  large  tortoise-shell 
comb,  a  way  of  killing  time  which  was  then  much  in 
vogue.  He  looked  as  usual  handsome,  discontented,  and 
blase.  Was  he  vexed  ?  Hugo  looked  at  him  questioningly, 
and  Randolph  who  had  long  been  watching  for  his  arrival, 
met  his  gaze,  scanned  him  from  head  to  foot,  and  looked 
at  any  rate  no  more  discontented  than  before.  There  was 
not  the  ominous  contraction  of  the  forehead  which  Hugo 
hated  to  cause.  He  breathed  more  freely,  and  advanced 
towards  the  King,  following  the  usher.  Randolph  watched 
him  critically.  A  tall  slim  graceful  figure  in  dark  blue 
vehet,  laced  with  gold,  a  manner  devoid  entirely  of 
courtier-like  subservience  and  adulation, — a  markedly 
quiet  manner,  just  escaping  nonchalance,  however,  by  a 
sort  of  inborn  dignity. 

Charles  was  seated  on  a  sort  of  ottoman,  lounging  be- 
tween two  of  his  mistresses,  on  his  right  hand  the  beauti- 


72  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

ful  Mrs.  Gwynne,  and  on  his  left  the  Duchess  of  Cleveland, 
one  of  the  most  depraved  women  of  the  time.  Hugo 
came  as  near  to  hating  her  as  he  was  capable  of  hating 
anybody  ;  he  loathed  the  thought  that  she  held  Randolph 
in  bondage,  loathed  the  thought  that  he  was  but  one  of 
her  innumerable  slaves,  and  if  he  made  light  of  the 
matter  to  old  Jeremiah  it  was  not  because  he  thought 
lightly  of  it. 

"You  are  late,  Mr.  Wharn cliff e,"  said  Charles,  with  a 
good-natured  smile,  extending  his  hand  which  the  young 
Templar  knelt  to  kiss. 

"Sire,"  replied  Hugo,  "I  made  all  speed  on  receiving 
your  gracious  message,  but  I  was  absent  when  it  ar- 
rived." 

"Making  merry  with  the  rioters  in  Fleet  Street,  I'll  be 
bound  !  "  said  Charles,  laughing.  "  Was  it  not  so,  eh?  *' 

"No,  my  liege,  I  was  at  Sir  William  Denham's." 

"What !  he  that  is  a  member  of  the  Royal  Society  ?  I 
remember  him  ;  a  learned  man,  and  methinks  he  has  a 
pretty  niece,  who  is  a  notable  heiress.  I  have  torn  him 
away,  you  see,"  turning  to  the  Duchess  of  Cleveland, 
"from  much  more  agreeable  society!  Was  the  fair 
maiden  wroth  with  me?" 

"Your  Majesty  is  wholly  mistaken,"  said  Hugo,  color- 
ing. 

"What !  can  you  deny  that  you  were  sorry  to  leave?" 
said  the  King,  laughing  at  his  face  of  embarrassment 

"There  was  in  truth  a  guest  of  whom  I  would  fain 
have  seen  more,  "said  Hugo,  with  the  transparent  honesty 
which  made  him  so  refreshing. 

' '  Who  was  that  ?  Let  us  hear  all  about  her  ?  a  blonde 
or  a  brunette  ? " 

"It  was  no  lady,  your  majesty,  it  was  merely  a  friend 
of  Sir  William  Denham's." 

"I  must  know  the  name  of  my  rival,  whose  presence 
was  more  to  be  desired  than  an  evening  at  my  court." 

Hugo  looked  troubled. 

"His  name,  sire,  was  Colonel  Sydney,"  he  replied 
i»fter  a  brief  pause. 

The  King  started. 

"Upon  my  soul !  young  man,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  are 
v»ery  bold  to  mention  that  man  in  my  presence. 

"  It  was  at  your  majesty's  request,  "sa^-  Hugo,  respect- 
fully, but  with  a  sort  ot  grave  dignity. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN DAYS.  73 

Charles  smiled 

"  Tis  true,  and  I  like  you  better  for  not  being  an  adept  at 
lying  yet  awhile.  After  all,  there's  something  naive  in  an 
honest  man  nowadays.  There  !  a  jest  for  you  ladies  ! 
When  does  an  honest  man  become  a  knave?  When 
honesty  is  so  old-fashioned  that  it  has  a  naive  appearance. " 

He  grew  thoughtful  for  a  minute,  and  the  lines  in  his 
hard-featured  face  deepened,  while  he  toyed  absently 
with  three  spaniel  puppies  on  his  knee. 

"And  so  you  would  fain  have  seen  more  of  Colonel 
Sydney  ?  "  he  eaid,  looking  curiously  at  the  young  Tem- 
plar. 

"Yes,  your  majesty,"  replied  Hugo,  lifting  his  quiet 
gray  eyes  to  the  King's. 

"And  why,  pray?" 

"He  seemed  to  me  a  man  of  great  power,  a  very  noble 
man,  my  liege." 

"Are  you  aware  that  he  is  one  of  the  most  dangerous 
men  in  the  country  ?  That  he  took  a  leading  part  in  the 
Rebellion  ?  That  he  would  fain  establish  a  gloomy  Re- 
public in  this  merry  England  of  ours?" 

"Sire,"  said  Hugo,  rendered  uneasy  by  the  conscious- 
ness that  Randolph  was  listening  disapprovingly  to  every 
word  he  uttered,  yet  sturdily  det  rmined  that  nothing 
should  make  him  false  to  Sydney.  "Sire,  I  know  very 
little  of  such  matters,  but  one  thing  I  cannot  doubt,  and 
that  is  that  be  his  views  what  they  may,  Colonel  Sydney 
is  a  noble  gentleman." 

"There  is  not  another  man  in  all  England  who  would 
have  the  courage  to  tell  me  that  to  my  face,"  said  Charles, 
musing.  "Well,  lad,  I  would  have  you  be  truer  to  me 
than  Colonel  Sydney  has  been,  for  i'  faith  I  have  but  few 
followers  so  brave  and  outspoken.  But  enough  of  this, — 
go  sing  me  one  of  your  songs." 

Hugo  obeyed,  feeling  thankful  enough  to  have  the  con- 
versation ended.  It  is  not  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world 
to  speak  out  bravely  in  defence  of  an  unpopular  person, 
and  to  incur  Randolph's  displeasure  was  always  keenly 
painful  to  Hugo.  With  a  very  heavy  heart,  which  could 
in  no  wise  be  elated  by  the  King's  compliment,  he  crossed 
over  to  the  harpsichord,  and  handed  his  song  to  Signer 
"John  Baptist,"  who  was  to  accompany  him.  The  same 
song  which  but  an  hour  ago  he  had  sung  at  the  Denhams' 
house,  to  how  different  an  assembly  I  He  sang  several 


74  /V  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

times  and  was  warmly  applauded.  After  his  last  song  he 
looked  around  apprehensively  for  his  brother,  but  Ran- 
dolph had  disappeared  and  the  King,  too,  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen. 

Could  he  have  looked  into  the  adjoining  chamber, 
where  Charles  was  in  the  habit  of  receiving  those  who 
desired  private  interviews,  he  would  have  seen  his  Sover- 
eign and  his  guardian  deep  in  conversation,  laying  a 
scheme  which  was  to  cost  him  dear. 

"You  say  the  lad  is  absolutely  obedient,  that  you  could 
trust  him  with  anything  ? " 

"Absolutely,  your  majesty.  I  have  trained  him  to  be 
of  use,  and  to  serve  my  ends.  He  will  not  question 
aught  that  I  bid  him  do. " 

"  Then,  if  that  is  so,  it  were  no  bad  plan  that  he  should 
learn  to  know  this  traitor ;  I  hear  he  has  great  influence 
with  young  men.  Let  him  get  hand  and  glove  with  him, 
trusted  with  his  secrets  and  so  forth,  and  then  when  the 
right  time  comes  do  you  make  him  reveal  all  to  yourself. 
You  think  you  can  do  this  ?  " 

"  I  am  certain  of  it,  my  liege." 

"You  are  very  much  more  confident  than  I  am,"  said 
the  King,  thoughtfully.  "  He  seemed  to  me  just  now  by 
no  means  so  docile  and  yielding  as  you  deem  him." 

"  Your  majesty  will  pardon  his  awkwardness,  that  was 
but  his  lack  of  court  training." 

"In  dishonesty,"  said  the  King,  with  a  sarcastic  smile. 

"Moreover,"  continued  Randolph,  stung  by  his  remark, 
"it  is  possible,  if  your  majesty  will  pardon  my  saying 
such  a  thing,  that  he  would  reveal  to  myself  what  he 
would  not  reveal  to  your  majesty." 

"  Which  in  plain  English  means  that  you  are  the  greater 
bully.  Well,  I  willingly  concede  you  the  palm  !  " 

He  laughed  :  Randolph  smiled  a  mechanical  court 
smile. 

"Of  course  it  rests  with  you,  my  liege.  If  it  will 
further  your  ends,  I  will  gladly  let  the  boy  associate  with 
Colonel  Sydney  ;  all  we  desire  is  to  be  of  service  to  your 
majesty." 

"Then  be  it  so,"  said  the  King.  "Let  us  lay  this  at- 
tractive net  for  my  enemy." 

They  returned  to  the  gallery  ;  the  King  looked  a  little 
regretfully  at  Hugo,  who  was  to  be  made  an  unconscious 
tool,  and  used  for  work  which  he  would  abhor.  But  in 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  75 

another  minute  he  had  forgotten  all  about  the  matter,  and 
was  jesting  with  the  beautiful  and  witty  Duchess  of  Maz- 
arine, who  was  at  that  time  high  in  his  favor. 

Randolph,  after  a  moment's  consideration,  made  his 
way  to  the  place  where  Hugo  was  standing,  apparently 
listening  to  Gostling's  song,  but  in  reality  absorbed  in 
his  own  thoughts. 

"Take  a  turn  with  me,"  said  Randolph.  "I  have  a 
word  to  say  to  you." 

Under  cover  of  the  music,  and  the  general  roar  of  con- 
versation, which  was  not  much  abated  even  by  the  sing- 
ing of  the  celebrated  bass,  the  two  brothers  paced  the 
gallery,  practically  as  much  in  private  as  in  their  own 
chambers. 

"  You  managed  well  just  now,"  began  Randolph.  "I 
feared  that  you  would  ruin  your  reputation  with  the  King, 
but  luckily  for  you  he  took  all  in  good  part" 

Hugo  was  much  relieved,  he  had  expected  something 
very  different  from  Randolph. 

His  brother  continued 

"  You  have  done  very  well  indeed,  I  felt  proud  of  you. 
Honesty  is  at  times  the  best  policy,  there  is  no  question 
of  that.  But  just  one  word  of  caution.  I  don't  object  to 
your  following  up  the  acquaintance  which  you  have  made 
to-night  at  the  Denhams',  only  mention  not  that  unpop- 
ular name  more  than  need  be.  You  only  harm  both  your- 
self and  him  by  bringing  his  name  intc  notice.  Do  you 
understand  ?  " 

"Ay,"  said  Hugo.  "  I  will  be  careful.  And  you  do 
not  indeed  object  to  my  meeting  him  again  ?  He  said  he 
must  see  more  of  me,  and  I  would  fain  know  him  better, 
for  indeed,  sir,  he  is  a  great  man,  the  greatest  man  I  ever 
met." 

Randolph  smiled  good-naturedly. 

' '  Well,  well,  have  a  care.  Sing  his  praises  to  me  as 
much  as  you  will,  but  to  the  world  without  hold  your 
tongue.  I  doubt  not  he  is  an  able  man,  he  has  travelled 
much,  and  knows  the  world. " 

"Who  is  that  beautiful  girl  standing  near  the  harpsi- 
chord?" asked  Hugo,  diverted  from  all  thoughts  of 
Sydney,  by  a  face  which  somehow  reminded  him  of 
Joyce. 

"Her  in  rose-colored  satin,  mean  you?  That  is  the 
little  Duchess  of  Graf  ton,  Lord  Arlington's  daughter. " 


7  6  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  FS, 

"What,  is  she  married  already  ?  " 

"Ay,  she  was  married  at  five  years  old,  and  re-married 
at  twelve  to  one  of  his  majesty's  sons.  I'll  get  her 
mother-in-law  to  introduce  you  to  her." 

Hugo  could  not  make  any  objection,  though  it  seemed 
to  him  a  sort  of  sacrilege  to  owe  an  introduction  to  such 
a  girl  to  the  favor  of  such  a  woman. 

"They  will  just  suit  each  other, "  said  the  Duchess  of  Cleve- 
land, when  Randolph  had  preferred  his  request.  "The 
two  court  innocents  !  I  marvel  they  had  not  become  ac- 
quainted long  since.  My  love,"  turning  to  the  young 
girl  who  was  standing  close  by  her,  and  had  already 
colored  deeply  at  the  disagreeable  bantering  tone.  "  My 
love,  let  me  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Hugo  Wharncliffe,  a 
paragon  of  virtue  I  assure  you." 

The  girl  curtseyed,  Hugo  bowed  low  ;  they  were  both 
of  them  too  young  not  to  be  a  good  deal  discomposed  by 
this  uncomfortable  introduction,  Hugo  almost  fancied  he 
saw  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  little  duchess,  and  this  made 
him  quickly  recover  his  equanimity  that  he  might  come 
to  her  rescue. 

"  Signor  John  Baptist  is  a  skilful  player  is  he  not  ?  "  he 
remarked  "  I  had  not  heard  him  before  this  evening." 

She  looked  grateful  to  him  for  promptly  starting  so 
easy  a  topic, 

"In  truth,"  she  said,  glancing  round  to  see  that  her 
mother-in-law  was  safely  out  of  hearing,  "the  music  is 
the  sole  thing  that  makes  this  place  tolerable.  I  love  not 
Whitehall,  and  you,  methinks,  agree  with  me  in  that  dis- 
loyal sentiment " 

She  smiled,  with  a  mixture  of  humor  and  pathos  which 
enchanted  him. 

"  And  yet," said  Hugo,  meditatively,  "'twould scarcely 
do  to  live  only  among  one's  books.  I  should  have  lost 
much  indeed  this  night  had  not  my  friend  Denham  ruth- 
lessly carried  me  oft " 

"  Is  that  a  kinsman  of  Mistress  Mary  Denham  ?  " 

"It  is  her  cousin." 

"I  know  Mistress  Mary  Denham  well,  and  methinks  I 
have  heard  her  mention  you.  Are  you  not  he  who  found 
for  Sir  William  Denham  that  rare  plant  of  which  he  wanted 
a  specimen  ?  " 

"We  chanced  upon  it  in  Suffolk,  a  few  weeks  since," 
aaid  Hugo,  "  returning  from  the  Newmarket  races,  Bui 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  77 

indeed  it  is  as  much  due  to  Rupert  Denham  as  to  me,  for 
he  found  it  a  second  time  when  I  had  lost  it." 

The  little  duchess  looked  at  him  with  a  pleased  look. 
She  had  heard  the  whole  story,  and  knew  that  the  plant 
had  been  lost  because  the  elder  brother  had  snatched  it 
away  in  a  passion  and  thrown  it  into  a  wayside  copse. 
She  liked  him  greatly  for  keeping  silence  about  that  part 
of  the  matter. 

A'  Mr.  Evelyn  told  me  once  that  the  King  has  in  his 
library  a  curious  book  on  botany  with  rare  colored  plates. 
Would  you  care  to  see  it  ? " 

"  I  should  like  it  greatly,  if  it  were  possible,"  said  Hugo. 
"  But  I  could  not  ask  any  favor  of  the  King  to-night." 

' 'But  I  will  ask;  it  will  give  him  pleasure,  for  he  is 
always  pleased  to  see  his  subjects  lovers  of  science.  See  ! 
he  is  at  liberty  now,  I  will  ask  his  permission." 

She  walked  gracefully  towards  the  King  and  made  her 
request,  to  which  he  at  once  acceded,  but  as  usual  could 
not  forbear  making  one  of  his  jests. 

"Go,  by  all  means;  one  of  the  ushers  will  show  you 
the  way.  And  we  won't  say  anything  of  a  duenna,  since 
he  is  such  a  handsome  spark.  Odds  fish  !  she  blushes 
like  a  carnation  !  art  in  love  with  the  young  scapegrace 
already,  I'll  be  bound." 

But  the  prudent  little  duchess  had  learnt  enough  of  the 
world  to  take  very  good  care  that  a  staid  old  court  lady 
accompanied  them  when  they  left  the  gallery,  with  the 
usher  in  advance  to  pilot  them  through  the  maze  of  rooms 
and  passages.  The  man  bore  a  lamp  which  dimly  revealed 
to  them  the  costly  furniture  and  the  rich  hangings  of  the 
rooms  through  with  they  passed.  It  was  not,  however, 
till  an  exclamation  escaped  Hugo  that  they  paused  in 
their  onward  way. 

"Oh,"  he  cried.  "Bring  the  light  nearer,  sir,  an  you 
will.  What  is  this  beautiful  picture  ?  " 

They  were  in  a  room  which  was  filled  with  all  kinds  of 
curious  clocks,  watches,  and  pendules,  Charles  being 
fond  of  all  clever  mechanism  ;  there  were  also  several 
beautiful  pictures,  and  Hugo  had  paused  before  one  repre- 
senting the  appearance  of  our  Lord  after  His  Resurrec- 
tion to  Mary  Magdalene. 

"  Tis  the  '  Noli  me  tangere '  of  Hans  Holbein,"  said  the 
usher,  "  and  worth  any  money,  they  say." 

He  went  on  talking  and  criticising,  but  luckily  addressed 


7g  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

all  his  remarks  to  the  duenna  ;  as  for  Hugo  and  the  little 
duchess  they  could  neither  of  them  have  spoken,  for  the 
unspeakable  reverence,  the  sort  of  heavenly  astonishment 
expressed  in  the  picture  seemed  to  have  taken  possession 
of  them.  In  that  silence  somehow  they  learnt  to  know 
each  other ;  they  had  begun,  though  they  did  not  know 
it,  a  life-long  friendship. 

"This  is  the  library,"  said  the  usher,  flinging  open  a 
door  close  by. 

They  entered,  and  found  what  for  that  age  was  a  large 
collection  of  books,  numbering  perhaps  a  thousand 
volumes.  Some  of  them  were  richly  bound,  and  embossed 
with  gold,  but  the  particular  book  which  they  had  come 
to  see  was  in  manuscript,  a  great  quarto  over  three  hun- 
dred years  old  and  written *in  French.  The  plants  were 
most  curiously  painted  in  miniature,  and  Hugo  was  de- 
lighted to  have  an  opportunity  of  going  through  them, 
while  the  little  duchess,  though  only  fifteen,  displayed 
so  much  intelligence,  and  such  an  eagerness  to  learn 
from  him  all  that  he  could  tell  her,  that  she  doubled  his 
pleasure. 

"You  must  come  and  see  me,"  she  said  to  him,  when 
they  parted,  "  at  my  father's  house.  Then  someday  you 
must  be  introduced  to  Mr.  Evelyn,  who  often  comes  there. 
He  would  like  to  know  you,  I  feel  sure,  and  I  ever  long 
for  all  whom  I  like  to  know  him,  for  he  is  so  learned  and 
so  good." 

Thus  ended  what  had  proved  for  Hugo  an  eventful 
evening. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
JOYCE'S  JOURNAL. 

Sometimes  hath  the  brightest  day  a  cloud ; 
And  after  summer  evermore  succeeds 
Barren  winter,  with  its  wrathful  nipping  cold ; 
So  cares  and  joys  abound  as  seasons  fleet. 

SHAKSPERE. 

I,  JOYCE  WHARNCLIFFE,  have  determined  for  three  reasons 
to  write  down  from  time  to  time  what  I  can  remember  of 
our  life  at  Mondisfield.  The  first  of  these  reasons  is  that 
things  are  really  beginning  *o  happen  so  fast, — and  we 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 


79 


never  believed  till  now  that  anything  would  happen,  only 
that  each  day  would  go  oh  much  like  the  one  before,  with 
Sundays  to  keep  us  from  getting  too  monotonous.  The 
second  reason  is  that,  since  the  fifth  of  October,  when  the 
duel  was  fought  outside  the  park,  Evelyn  and  I  have  felt 
dull  somehow,  and  as  if  just  the  first  seeing  of  that  bad 
man,  and  the  seeing  of  how  our  brave  "knight"  fought 
with  him,  had  made  it  quite  impossible  for  us  to  go  back  to 
our  old  ways,  fancying  stories,  and  acting  people's  lives  in 
our  own.  Somehow,  things  got  real  to  us  on  that  Satur- 
day afternoon,  and  then  the  Sunday  following,  when  the 
congregation  had  to  disperse  all  in  haste,  and  when  we 
were  in  terror  lest  our  dear  father  should  be  arrested,  that 
made  life  seem  still  more  real. 

It  puzzles  me  a  little  that,  though  it  has  at  last  begun  to 
feel  so  very  real  to  me,  yet  I  do  not  like  a  bit  better  to  be 
what  Elizabeth  calls  ''useful  in  the  house."  The  books 
will  seem  still  to  me  more  real  than  the  puddings,  and  the 
preserves,  and  the  dairy-work,  and  the  needle-work.  I 
said  so  to  Elizabeth  to-day,  but  dear  Betty,  though  she  is  so 
wise,  does  not  seem  to  understand  at  all  what  books  do 
for  one.  She  came  to  me  in  the  north  parlor,  and  said, 

"  Oh,  Joycs,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  idle  away  your  time 
with  vain  poems  and  plays." 

I  was  reading  Shakspere's  story  of  "Romeo  and  Juliet." 
It  was  a  pity  it  was  not  one  of  his  historical  plays,  because 
that  would  have  been  easier  to  argue  from,  and  certainly 
it  did  seem,  perhaps,  a  little  wasting  time  to  be  reading  a 
love-tale.  I  read  it  because  it  seemed  to  me  that  Romeo 
might  have  been  like  our  knight — he  did  fight  two  duels, 
and  he  was  young,  and  brave,  and  handsome, 

"  But, "  I  said  to  Betty,  "  it  gives  one  so  many  thoughts 
to  read  books  and  that  makes  one  happy.  Whereas,  to 
make  puddings  and  preserves  gives  one  no  thoughts  at 
all" 

"  No  thoughts  1 "  cried  Betty.  "  No  thoughts  in  mak- 
ing a  pudding.  Why,  you  have  to  keep  thinking  all  the 
time." 

"You  have  to  keep  worrying.  '  Have  I  put  enough 
sugar  ?  Is  there  too  much  dough  ?  Will  it  be  heavy  ? 
How  long  must  it  boil  ? '  "  I  said,  laughing.  "  But  I  don't 
call  that  thinking." 

"I  call  it  thinking  to  some  purpose,"  said  Betty,  with 
that  vexed  look  which  she  always  has  when  I  say  what 


go  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  Y\ 

she  thinks  unpractical  things.  "Who  is  the  better  for 
your  reading  of  books,  and  your  thinking  of  thoughts  that 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  house,  or  with  anything  that 
is  of  use  ?  " 

I  was  silenced  by  that.  For,  when  one  comes  to  think 
of  it,  who  is  the  better  for  it  because  I  read  Mr.  Milton's 
"  Paradise  Lost,"  or  "Romeo  and  Juliet,"  or  "The  Tem- 
pest," or  even  graver  books  ? 

"  What  have  you  to  show  for  this  whole  hour  that  you 
have  been  reading  ?  "  she  went  on.  ' '  Whereas,  if  you 
had  been  busy  in  the  kitchen,  you  might  have  had  a  pile 
of  manchets  ready  for  the  morrow,  or  you  might  have 
made  girdle-cakes  for  every  one's  supper." 

I  only  felt  that  I  had  got  something  from  the  reading, 
but  whether  it  was  a  thing  which  could  be  shown  defi- 
nitely, like  a  manchet  or  a  girdle-cake,  I  was  doubtful.  Yet 
it  was  to  me,  after  all,  more  real  than  either. 

"  It  makes  the  world  feel  bigger  when  one  reads,"  I 
said  at  last.  "It  makes  you  see  how  little  you  know, 
and  what  a  great  number  of  things  there  are  to  know. 
And,  oh  !  Betty  !  " — I  could  have  danced  with  delight  at 
having  at  length  got  hold  of  the  right  argument — "  your 
pudding  is  made,  and  eaten,  and  there's  an  end  of  it ;  but 
the  book  is  read,  and  stays  always,  and  makes  one  happy, 
and  teaches  one  things,  and  there's  never  any  end  to  it." 

"It  is  selfish,"  said  Betty.  "For  you  see  it  is  only 
yourself  that  is  made  better,  after  all.  Whereas  the  pud- 
ding would  have  been  for  every  one's  dinner,  and  the 
manchets  for  every  one's  breakfast,  and  the  girdle-cakes 
for  every  one's  supper." 

This  seemed  to  me  unanswerable.  I  felt  very  unhappy. 
Could  it  be  wrong  to  read  ?  If  so,  why  did  so  many  great 
and  good  people  write  books  ? 

Father  had  been  tying  up  a  climbing  rose  just  by  the 
window,  and  he  must  have  heard  what  we  were  saying, 
for  just  then  he  came  in. 

"  You  foolish  children  !  "  he  said.  "  One  of  you  talks 
as  if  you  were  all  body  and  no  mind,  and  the  other  as 
though  you  were  all  mind  and  no  body.  Books,  Betty, 
are  food  for  the  mind,  and  it  is  no  more  selfish  to  spend 
time  over  reading  them  than  to  spend  time  in  eating, 
sleeping,  and  walking  for  the  good  of  your  body.  Nay, 
it  is  quite  as  wrong,  perhaps  more  wrong,  to  neglect  the 
feeding  of  your  mind  as  to  neglect  the  healthful  keeping 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  8t 

of  your  body.  The  stronger  and  better  fed  the  mind,  the 
more  use  will  it  be  to  other  people,  sooner  or  later.  As 
for  you,  my  little  Joy,"  he  said,  putting  his  hand  on  my 
head,  "you  will  be  a  wise  maid,  and  let  no  day  pass 
without  doing  something  in  the  house  to  help  your  mother. 
For,  look  you,  what  would  come  to  us  all  if  Betty  were  to 
marry  ?  Or  how  would  you  order  your  husband's  house, 
if  you  knew  naught  of  housewifery  ?  " 

I  have  written  this  all  down,  even  our  silly  talk,  because 
I  wanted  always  to  remember  what  my  father  said.  I 
shall  think  of  it  always  when  I  mind  being  called  away 
to  the  kitchen,  but  somehow,  I  don't  think  I  shall  mind 
again. 

Would  Juliet  have  managed  her  husband's  house  well,  I 
wonder,  if  her  story  had  not  ended  so  sadly  ?  She  was 
just  as  old  as  I  am, 

I  have  been  a  long  time  coming  to  my  third  reason  for 
writing  our  recollections.  The  third  reason  is  that  a  dread- 
ful thought  has  come  to  me,  or  rather  was  given  to  me  by 
my  father — that  perhaps  Mondisfield  might  not  long  be 
ours.  How  I  came  to  hear  about  it  was  in  this  way.  The 
others  were  all  in  the  orchard  at  the  apple  gathering.  I 
was  to  go  too;  but  had  not  quite  finished  my  morning's 
spinning.  The  spinning  is  the  housework  I  mind  doing 
least.  It  is  not  at  all  sticky  and  greasy,  like  the  cakes 
and  puddings,  and  you  need  not  keep  worrying  about  it 
like  other  kinds  of  work  ;  it  is  a  sort  of  steady  going  on, 
just  as  monotonous  as  the  whirr  of  the  wheel,  and  I  like  it 
because  one  can  think  about  other  things  at  the  same  time. 
Nurse  had  let  me  take  my  spinning-wheel  into  the  musi- 
cian's gallery,  which  has  always  been  my  own  special  part 
of  the  house.  It  is  only  used  by  other  people  once  a  year, 
though  in  old  times,  they  say,  the  musicians  played  every 
evening  while  the  family  were  at  supper,  and  often  there 
were  dances.  We  do  not  often  dance,  father's  friends 
mostly  think  it  wrong.  But  he  likes  us  to  dance  by  our- 
selves, and  once  a  year — that  is  on  the  twelfth  of  May, 
which  is  his  birthday,  and  Elizabeth's  too — we  have  a 
great  festival  day,  and  real  musicians  come  from  St.  Ed- 
mondsbury,  and  we  have  songs,  and  country  dances,  and 
a  dinner  for  all  the  tenants.  Some  people  wonder  at 
father  for  doing  this,  but  he  says  that  all  extremes  are  bad, 
and  that,  perchance,  had  the  Commonwealth  been  less 
strict  about  the  amusements,  the  people  would  not  have 
6 


82  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

been  so  eager  to  get  back  the  King  and  his  wicked  court 
And  once  I  even  heard  him  tell  a  grave  and  learned  minis- 
ter that  so  long  as  the  hundred  and  fiftieth  psalm  found 
place  in  the  Bible,  his  daughters  should  enjoy  both  timbrel 
and  dance  in  moderation,  only  he  would  ever  have  an  eye 
to  the  company  they  mixed  with, 

Well,  I  was  sitting  with  my  spinning-wheel  in  the  old 
gallery,  when  all  at  once,  above  the  whirr,  I  heard  a  sharp 
sound  as  of  something  snapping  asunder.  Looking  across 
to  the  other  end  of  the  hall,  where  the  sound  came  from, 
I  saw  that  the  picture  of  the  little  boy  with  the  dog,  which 
hangs  high  up  above  the  north  parlor  door,  and  exactly 
facing  my  gallery,  was  falling  down.  The  string  had 
snapped,  and  I  could  do  nothing  —  nothing  but  just  watch 
it,  as  it  fell  to  the  ground,  making  a  great  crash  on  the 
white  flagstones,  When  it  was  down,  I  ran  out  of  the 
gallery,  through  the  little  room  beyond,  and  down  the 
steep  little  staircase,  then  hurried  out  beyond  the  screen, 
and  through  the  hall  till  I  had  reached  the  picture. 

Its  frame  was  badly  broken,  and  in  many  places  the  gold 
had  chipped  off,  but  the  portrait  itself  was  not  hurt.  I 
looked  at  it  curiously,  for  it  was  too  small  a  picture  to  be 
seen  very  well  at  a  distance,  and  my  idea  of  the  little  boy 
had  been  always  somewhat  vague.  I  do  not  know  why, 
but  as  a  little  girl  I  well  remember  having  a  strange  terror 
of  this  picture.  It  always  seemed  to  be  looking  at  me, 
and  on  dusk  evenings  in  summer,  or,  worse  still,  on  dark 
nights  in  winter,  by  the  dim  lamplight,  I  used  to  rush 
through  the  hall,  on  my  way  to  bed,  absolutely  trembling 
at  the  thought  of  those  eyes  which  would  follow  me. 
That,  of  course,  was  long  ago.  I  almost  laughed  at  the 
thought  now,  for  on  a  nearer  and  soberer  view  it  was  such 
a  harmless  sort  of  picture.  A  little  innocent,  dark-eyed 
babe  of  two  or  three  years,  in  a  tight  white  cap,  a  long 
white  pinner,  and  bishop  sleeves.  In  one  hand  it  grasped 
a  rattle,  with  the  other  it  patted  a  little  spaniel.  The 
whole  attitude  was  stiff  and  quaint  —  indeed,  it  was  hard  to 
tell  whether  he  were  sitting,  or  standing,  or  leaning.  Once 
more  I  turned  the  picture  over  as  it  had  fallen.  On  the 
back  of  the  canvas  was  painted  a  name  in  large  black 
characters, 


and  down  below,  written  in  my  father's  writing,  —  "This 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  83 

picture  was  saved  from  the  Great  Fire  of  London,  in  the 
year  of  grace  1666." 

Who  was  Hugo  Wharncliffe  ?  Had  we  ever  had  a 
brother  of  whom  I  had  never  heard  ?  That  seemed  scarcely 
possible.  As  I  wondered,  my  father  passed  through  the 
hall,  and,  seeing  that  the  picture  had  fallen,  came  to  see 
how  far  it  was  injured. 

''Father,"  I  said,  "who  is  this  boy?  Who  is  Hugo 
Wharncliffe?  Had  we  ever  a  brother  ? " 

"Never,  my  child,  "he  replied,  sadly.  "This  is  the 
portrait  of  a  very  distant  kinsman  of  yours,  brother  to 
him  who  is  heir-at-law,  and  will  at  my  death  take  posses- 
sion of  this  house." 

My  heart  almost  stopped  beating. 

"  What !  "  I  cried,  "  will  Mondisfield  belong  to  us  no 
more  ?  I  thought  it  was  ours  for  always." 

My  father  smiled,  and  explained  to  me  that,  as  he  had 
no  son,  the  property  went  to  the  next  male,  one  Randolph 
Wharncliffe. 

"But  how  came  you  by  this  picture,  then  ?  "  I  asked. 

"That,  "said  my  father,  "  is  a  long  story;  however, 
you  shall  hear  it  I  loved  this  lad's  mother  well ;  she 
was  a  noble  lady,  and  would  have  brought  up  her  son 
virtuously  had  she  lived.  She  died,  poor  lady,  in  the 
plague  year ;  out  of  the  whole  household  were  left  but 
three — Randolph,  the  eldest,  a  young  man  of  two-and- 
twenty,  this  little  lad  here,  whose  portrait  was  scarce 
finished,  and  yet  in  the  artist's  hands  at  the  time,  and  one 
servant.  Being  in  London  in  the  August  of  the  year  fol- 
lowing, when  the  pestilence  was  somewhat  abated,  I  was 
one  day  waited  on  by  the  artist,  who,  hearing  that  I  was 
head  of  the  Wharncliffe  family,  called  to  explain  to  me 
how  matters  were  with  regard  to  this  picture.  It  had 
been  ordered,  it  seems,  by  the  little  lad's  mother,  who 
was  since  dead  ;  the  brother  would  not  take  the  picture, 
or  pay  anything  towards  the  expense,  saying  merely  he 
had  not  ordered  it.  To  argue  with  him  was  of  no  avail, 
and  sooner  than  have  our  name  dishonored,  I  paid  the 
artist  myself,  and  brought  the  picture  to  my  rooms  in  the 
City,  That  day  se'nnight  broke  out  the  great  fire,  and 
how  I  escaped  with  all  my  goods  you  have  oftentimes 
heard.  I  wrote  it  on  the  back  of  the  canvas,  as  you  see, 
so  that  this  lad's  descendants  may  prize  the  picture  accord1 
ingly  as  a  relic. " 


»4  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  KR 

"  His  descendants  ! '  I  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  father,  I  eve! 
thought  we  should  live  here,  and  after  that  our  children, 
not  other  people's. " 

"It  cannot  be,  little  Joy.  And,  after  all,  why  should 
we  look  to  the  future  ?  Set  your  heart  on  nothing,  child ; 
for  indeed  it  is  well  if  I  hold  this  place  through  my  life- 
time. Randolph  Wharncliffe,  they  tell  me,  hath  great 
influence  at  Court,  and  he  accounts  me  his  bitterest  foe. " 

"You,  father  1  How  can  he  make  a  foe  of  you  !  "  I 
said,  looking  up  into  his  grave,  quiet,  strong  face.  How, 
indeed,  could  any  one  help  loving  and  revering  him  ? 

"It  is  in  this  way,  child,"  said  my  father.  "He  is  one 
of  the  Sussex  Wharncliffes,  and  lost  his  estates,  or  rather 
his  father  lost  his  estates,  in  the  time  of  the  civil 
war.  These  he  has  never  recovered,  though  he  would 
fain  have  done  so  at  the  Restoration.  Can  you  not 
understand,  then,  that  it  is  bitter  for  him  to  see  one  of  the 
Suffolk  Wharncliffes,  who  fought  against  the  late  king, 
still  peacefully  enjoying  his  property  ?  Could  he  get  rid 
of  me,  he  would,  you  see,  come  into  this  estate  at  once. 
And,  Joyce,  these  are  evil  times,  and  I  hold  unpopular 
opinions.  You  must  not  set  your  heart,  dear  child,  on 
a  quiet  life  here." 

I  looked  at  the  innocent  little  babe  in  the  picture,  and 
wondered  what  this  unknown  kinsman  of  mine  would  be 
like  now. 

"Would  this  cousin  be  your  enemy  too?"  I  asked, 
after  a  pause. 

"He  would  certainly  hold  his  brother's  views  of  the 
matter,"  said  my  father.  "  Tis  many  years  since  I  saw 
him,  but  I  remember  well  that  he  was  like  the  little  shadow 
of  his  brother,  following  him  everywhere,  and  obeying 
him  most  implicitly.  It  was  most  touching,  I  remember. 
to  notice  his  devotion  to  one  who  treated  him  but  roughly.' 
Poor  lad  !  he  stands  a  bad  chance  with  such  a  training." 

"  Does  he,  too,  go  to  the  court  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  should  think  it  very  probable,"  said  my  father  ;  and 
with  that  he  went  away,  to  leave  me  a  new  subject  for 
day-dreams.  Evelyn  and  I  talked  about  it  almost  all  the 
afternoon,  while  we  gathered  the  apples.  Evelyn  and  I 
always  go  together,  though  she  is  six  years  younger,  and 
Robina  comes  in  betwixt  us.  But  Robina,  all  say,  should 
have  been  a  boy.  She  is  now  just  fourteen,  and  as  tall  as 
I  am,  and  her  wrists  much  stronger.  She  loves  to  be  ever 


Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  85 

out  of  doors ;  in  the  farm-yard  among  the  poultry  and 
the  pigs  and  the  cows.  And  she  will  spend  hours  in  the 
warren  with  the  conies,  who  do  not  fear  her ;  and  the 
deer  in  the  park  will  let  her  stroke  them,  though,  if  any 
one  else  draw  near  they  rush  off  like  the  wind.  Robina  is 
much  more  clever  than  I  am,  and  seems  older  altogether, 
and  never  cares  for  other  people  to  look  after  her,  but  will 
ever  be  independent.  She  wishes  much  she  had  been  a 
'boy,  chiefly  because  she  would  not  then  have  been  forced 
to  wear  long  skirts,  which  certainly  do  get  in  one's  way 
not  a  little.  The  only  play  of  Shakspere's  that  I  can 
ever  make  her  hearken  to  is  'Cymbeline/ and  she  cares 
not  for  that  till  it  comes  to  the  part  where  Imogen  dons 
'doublet,  hat,  hose,' and  says  she  is  'almost  a  man  al- 
ready.' All  which  Betty  thinks  mighty  improper,  but 
Evelyn  and  I  think  we  would  have  done  harder  things 
than  that  to  win  back  our  husband's  trust,  and,  anyhow, 
it  seemed  better  than  staying  at  the  court  to  die  of  a  broken 
heart. 

The  day  that  the  picture  fell,  when  we  had  finished  the 
apple-gathering  for  that  afternoon,  some  of  us  shaking  the 
branches  while  Nurse  stood  below  to  catch  the  apples,  or 
else  all  holding  a  big  cloth  below,  while  Hurst  climbed 
into  the  trees,  and  dropped  them  softly  down  so  that  they 
might  not  be  bruised — when  all  was  done,  Evelyn  and  I 
stayed,  walking  up  and  down  the  apple-walk,  which  is 
quite  our  favorite  part  of  the  garden.  To  begin  with,  it 
is  quiet,  and  people  do  not  come  there  often,  for  it  lies  at 
the  further  side  of  the  vegetable-garden,  and  is  walled  off 
from  the  bowling-green.  At  the  end  is  the  pigeon-cote, 
with  its  red-tiled  roof  and  weather-vane,  and  the  dear,  soft 
blue-gray  pigeons  flying  and  whirring  about  overhead. 
Then,  too,  the  prettiest  part  of  the  moat  is  just  in  this 
place.  It  takes  a  great  sweeping  curve  just  beyond  the 
pigeon-cote,  and  on  the  further  bank  the  fir-trees  are  closer 
and  taller  than  elsewhere,  and  other  trees  mingle  with 
them  ;  and,  indeed,  the  wood  is  so  thick  just  there,  that 
we  always  call  it  the  wilderness.  After  that  great  beauti- 
ful curve,  the  moat  is  straight  for  a  long  way — the  whole 
length  of  the  apple  walk,  which  stretches  alongside  of  it, 
a  broad  grassy  walk,  with  one  side  sloping  down  to  the 
water  and  shaded  by  the  dear  old  apple-trees.  Evelyn 
and  I  always  fancy  that  the  monks  must  have  walked  up 
and  down  this  path.  For  in  old  times  Mondisfield  was  a 


86  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

monastery,  and  had  a  chapel  belonging  to  it,  which  was 
built  close  to  our  north  parlor.  And  the  abbot  of  St.  Ed- 
mondsbury  used  to  be  fond  of  staying  here. 

It  was  walking  up  and  down  the  apple  walk  that  day 
that  we  decided  to  write  down  what  happens.  I  am  to 
write  because  my  writing  is  easier  to  read,  but  Evelyn 
will  help  me  to  remember  things,  and  we  shall  do  it  on 
rainy  days.  We  do  it  for  the  sake  of  those  other  children 
who  one  day,  hundreds  of  years  hence  perhaps,  will  live 
in  our  dear  old  home. 

We  are  a  big  household.  There  are  father  and  mother ; 
Betty  who  is  nearly  one-and-twenty,  and  has  a  dear  kind 
face,  and  clever  hands  which  can  make  all  things  from 
shirts  to  sack  posset ;  Damaris,  who  is  tall  and  rosy,  and 
learns  Latin  and  can  even  write  poetry,  yet  is  skilful  at 
embroidery  too ;  Frances,  who  is  something  like  Betty, 
and  who  I  think  has  never  done  one  wrong  thing  all  her 
life,  yet  is  the  kindest  of  all  to  us  when  we  have  done 
wrong ;  Joyce,  the  one  who  writes  this  record ;  Robina, 
who  has  been  afore  described,  and  dear  Evelyn  our  pet, 
the  youngest  of  all.  Then  there  is  Nurse  who  has  lived 
with  us  all  our  lives,  and  Kezia  the  cook,  andTabitha  her 
daughter,  my  mother's  maid,  and  Dennis  the  serving-man, 
and  Hurst  the  gardener,  and  Melchizideck  th'e  coachman, 
beside  the  farm  laborers  who  live  in  the  cottages  near  by. 
Evelyn  says  I  have  not  described  myse/i,  and  that  the 
"descendants  "  of  the  Randolph  Wharncliffs  will  not  know 
what  I  am  like.  But  of  course  there  is  a  picture  of  me  in 
the  north  parlor,  which  will  perhaps  still  hang  there,  that 
picture  which  amuses  us  all  so  much.  It  was  our  grand- 
mother who  had  it  painted  when  once  I  stayed  with  her 
at  St.  Edmondsbury,  nearly  six  years  ago.  I  am  sitting 
in  a  beautiful  landscape  in  a  pale  green  satin  dress  (a 
dress  which  was  never  mine  at  all)  and  my  curls  are 
smoother  than  they  ever  could  have  been,  and  everything 
about  me  most  neat  and  proper,  with  never  a  crease  or  a 
crumple,  while  with  one  hand  I  caress  a  meeker  lamb 
than  ever  lived,  with  a  wreath  of  flowers  round  his  neck. 
Our  grandmother  had  the  picture  painted  for  her,  and 
when  she  died  it  was  brought  here.  Therefore  the  "'de- 
scendants" can  certainly  need  no  more  description. 
There  is  one  other  person  whom  I  would  have  liked  to  de- 
scribe, and  that  is  mother.  I  have  tried  but  it  is  of  no  use,  it 
all  had  to  be  scratched  out.  Somehow  I  almost  doubt  if 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  87 

even  Mr.  Milton  could  have  described  his  own  mother. 
There  are  some  things  will  not  go  into  words,  though  we  try 
ever  so  much  to  make  them. 

Writing  this,  in  the  window-seat  of  our  great  nursery, 
and  looking  first  out  of  doors  at  the  quiet  garden  and 
across  the  moat  to  the  broad  elm-tree  avenue,  and  again 
beyond  that  to  the  wooded  hill  in  the  distance,  with  all 
the  trees  so  golden  and  glorious,  I  can  scarcely  believe 
that  troubles  can  seek  us  out  in  this  dear  quiet  home  of 
ours.  Within  is  Nurse,  looking  through  a  great  basket 
full  of  hose — warm  woollen  hose  for  winter  wear,  and 
Evelyn  on  her  little  stool  sits  reading  Mr.  Bunyan's  story 
of  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  for  the  hundredth  time,  and 
eating  a  Perry  pippin.  Mother  has  just  come  in  with  a 
bunch  of  fresh  gathered  lavender,  which  we  are  to  make 
up  into  bags  for  the  linen-chest,  therefore  I  shall  write  no 
more  of  our  recollections  at  present.  Robina  and  Dama- 
ris  come  in  eating  apples, — we  all  eat  apples  in  these 
autumn  days,  Robina  owns  to  ten  this  afternoon  !  Will 
the  children  who  will  live  here  in  the  future  live  the  life 
we  live?  Will  they  wander  about  in  the  sunny  autumn 
days,  gathering  golden  pippins,  and  golden  preinettes, 
and  Perry  pippins?  Will  they  too  pace  to  and  fro  under 
the  dear  old  trees  in  the  apple  walk  ?  And  will  they  love 
Mondisfield  as  dearly  as  we  love  it  now  ? 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
MARY  DENHAM'S  COUNSEL. 

He  that  hath  love  and  judgment  too 
Sees  more  than  any  other  doo . 

MATTHEW  ROYDON, 

HUGO  was  naturally  one  of  those  who,  by  virtue  of  a 
yielding  disposition  and  an  absorption  in  intellectual 
pursuits,  are  somewhat  averse  to  politics.  Until  he  met 
Algernon  Sydney  the  affairs  of  the  nation  had  troubled 
him  not  at  all ;  he  had  thought  as  little  about  them  as 
any  one  in  England.  But  the  general  interest  in  political 
events  was  growing  so  keen  and  strong  that  it  was  no 
longer  possible  for  him  to  remain  indifferent  As  usual 
the  events  of  the  times  were  represented  in  the  games 


88  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

played  by  the  children.  In  the  days  of  the  disputes 
between  Charles  I.  and  the  Parliament,  the  children  had 
played  at  "  Cross-purposes."  At  the  Restoration  a  new 
game  had  been  introduced — "I  love  my  love  with  an  A, 
etc. "  At  the  present  time  another  game  had  superseded  this. 
The  light  frivolity  of  the  Restoration  days  had  become 
overshadowed  by  the  intolerance  which  made  Protest- 
ants persecute  Romanists,  Churchmen  persecute  Noncon- 
formists, and  Tories  do  all  in  their  power  to  silence  Whigs. 
Accordingly  the  children  began  to  travesty  the  state  of 
things  they  saw  in  the  world  around,  and  introduced  the 
game  of — "Neighbor  I've  come  to  torment  you  ;  do  as  I 
do."  This  again  was  in  its  turn  to  be  replaced  in  the  days 
of  the  Revolution,  when  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men 
were  changing  places,  by  "Puss  in  the  corner." 

As  even  in  their  sports  the  children  seemed  to  be  aware 
of  the  events  which  agitated  the  outer  world,  so  in  the 
quiet  of  his  life  of  study  Hugo  could  not  fail  to  be  aware 
of  the  great  national  struggle  which  was  going  on,  nor 
could  he  fail  to  take  interest  in  it.  Life  seemed  to  grow 
bigger  to  him,  and  he  became  growingly  conscious,  as 
Joyce  over  her  books  had  become  conscious,  that  he  knew 
very  little,  and  that  there  was  much  to  know.  It  is  a 
wonderful  time  for  all  of  us  when  we  first  begin  to  take 
keen  interest  in  matters  outside  our  own  small  circle, 
when,  having  been  duly  crammed  and  unduly  disgusted 
with  history  in  our  school  days,  we  wake  up  one  happy 
morning  to  find  that  there  is  a  living  history  which  can 
be  daily  and  hourly  studied — a  history  in  which  we  all 
have  our  share,  our  infinitesimal  yet  priceless  share  of 
influence  and  responsibility. 

The  autumn  had  been  to  him  a  very  happy  one.  He 
was  fascinated  by  Sydney,  whom  he  had  now  met  several 
times.  He  was  as  yet  only  in  that  pleasant  borderland 
where,  with  suspended  judgment  and  ready  observation, 
it  is  our  part  to  listen  and  learn  and  study  and  hold  our 
tongues.  Happy  nineteen  !  when  it  is  a  duty,  a  positive 
duty  to  keep  our  opinions  to  ourselves,  or  when  questioned 
to  put  them  forth  with  all  due  modesty  and  confession  of 
ignorance,  not  confidently  as  in  later  days,  when  the  time 
for  action  has  come  and  a  man  must  have  the  courage  of 
his  opinions,  and  be  ready  if  need  be  to  pain  his  dearest 
friends/  or  else  become  a  mere  cypher,  forfeiting  his  goodly 
birthright. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  89 

Westminster  Hall  had  in  those  days  a  row  of  book- 
stalls, and  at  one  or  another  of  these  Hugo  would  fre- 
quently pause  on  his  way  to  or  from  the  courts.  One  day 
early  in  December  he  had  parted  with  Denham,  who  by 
no  means  shared  his  bookish  tendencies,  and  in  his 
student's  cap  and  long  black  gown  was  standing  at  his 
favorite  stall  scanning  the  titles  of  the  books,  and  now  and 
again  taking  up  some  volume  which  had  for  him  a  special 
attraction. 

The  bookseller,  a  little  shrivelled  man  with  a  great  gift 
of  persuasiveness,  was  crying  up  his  own  wares  with  an 
entire  lack  of  false  modesty  and  a  great  many  adjectives. 

"The  finest  work,  sir,  of  the  year,  I  assure  you,  a 
mighty  fine  poem,  second  in  number,  but  not  second  in 
quality,  to  its  immortal,  far-renowned,  majestical  prede- 
cessor. The  greater  part  Mr.  Dryden's  own  work,  sir,  I 
assure  you." 

Hugo  took  up  the  second  part  of  "Absalom  and  Achit- 
ophel,"  and  glanced  through  it,  As  he  did  so  he  was 
startled  by  a  sudden  greeting  from  Randolph. 

"What  have  you  there?  Dryden's  last?  Oh,  Tate 
and  Dryden  mixed,  is  it  not  ?  Sounds  less  familiar  than 
Tate  and  Brady." 

"  Have  you  read  the  poem  ?  "  asked  Hugo. 

"No,  but  all  the  world  talks  of  it,  when  they  are  not 
talking  of  Captain  Clifford  and  Mrs.  Synderfin,  or  of  Lord 
Gray  and  Lady  Henrietta.  We  had  best  buy  it,  for  I  hear 
there  is  an  allusion  to  a  friend  of  ours,  or  at  least  an 
acquaintance." 

He  paid  for  the  book,  and  putting  his  arm  within 
Hugo's,  walked  down  Westminster  Hall,  and  crossing 
Palace  Yard,  led  the  way  towards  the  landing  stairs.  It 
was  not  the  least  happiness  of  this  memorable  autumn 
that  Randolph  had  grown  so  much  less  severe,  and 
treated  him  so  much  more  as  a  friend  and  an  equal. 
Hugo,  being  what  he  was,  never  dreamed  of  taking  the 
slightest  advantage  of  the  change,  if  possible  he  treated 
his  guardian  with  greater  deference  than  ever. 

They  took  a  boat  to  the  Temple  stairs,  and  as  they 
glided  along  the  crowded  river,  passing  hundreds  of  boats 
and  barges  all  gilded  with  the  ruddy  gold  light  of  the  set- 
ting sun,  Randolph  opened  the  new  book  and  searched 
for  the  allusion  to  this  mysterious  acquaintance. 

"  Ha  1  I  have  it  at  last ! "  he  exclaimed.     "  Now  carry 


9° 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 


your  thoughts  back  to  Mondisfield  Hall  on  the  night  oi 
the  fifth  October  and  hearken  to  this  : 

" '  Next  these,  a  troop  of  busy  spirits  press, 
Of  little  fortunes  and  of  conscience  less  : 
With  them  the  tribe,  whose  luxury  had  drained 
Their  banks,  hi  former  sequestrations  gained  : 
Who  rich  and  great  by  past  rebellions  grew, 
And  long  to  fish  the  troubled  streams  anew. 
Some  future  hopes,  some  present  payment  draws, 
To  sell  their  conscience  and  espouse  the  cause  : 
Such  stipends  those  vile  hirelings  best  befit, 
Priests  without  grace,  and  poets  without  wit. 
Shall  that  false  Hebronite  escape  our  curse, 
Judas,  that  keeps  the  rebel's  pension  purse  : 
Judas,  that  pays  the  treason-writer's  fee  ; 
Judas,  that  well  deserves  his  namesake's  tree  : 
Who  at  Jerusalem's  own  gates  erects 
His  college  for  a  nursery  of  the  sects." 

That  is  fine,  and  pure  Dryden  unalloyed  by  Tate,  I  dare 
swear.  How  now  ?  do  you  grasp  its  meaning  ?  " 

Hugo  had  done  his  best  to  forget  that  night  at  Mondis- 
field Hall,  and  was  by  no  means  grateful  to  Randolph  foi 
reminding  him  of  it 

"I  see  not  whom  he  means  by  Judas,"  he  replied,  look- 
ing far  away  to  the  west  where  the  river  flowed  calmly  on 
between  the  houses  and  the  green  gardens  to  the  peace- 
ful country,  reflecting  on  its  calm  surface  the  image  of  the 
crimson  skies. 

"Cannot  you  call  to  mind  the  man  who  was  spokes- 
man on  that  occasion  ?  A  hideous,  lantern-jawed  fellow, 
red  and  ill-favored.  That  was  Ferguson,  a  devil  incar- 
nate, and  the  one  whom  Mr.  Dryden  has  justly  painted 
as  Judas.  A  pestilent  treason-monger  who  bears  a 
charmed  life.  He  had  at  one  time  a  training  school  for 
those  who  would  enter  the  ministry." 

"  I  mind  his  face  well,"  said  Hugo.  "  He  was  the  ill- 
looking  one  of  the  lot." 

"  Forget  him  not,  but  bear  his  face  ever  in  mind. 
That  knowledge  may  prove  useful  some  day,"  said  Ran- 
dolph, turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  book. 

Hugo  made  no  reply,  only  a  vague  sense  of  discomfort 
crept  over  him.  He  fell  into  a  reverie. 

"  '  The  good  old  cause  revived,  a  plot  requires, 
Plots  true  or  false  are  necessary  things 
To  raise  up  commonwealths  and  ruin  kings,'  " 

said  Randolph,  half  aloud.     Then  again,  after  an  interval. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  91 

" '  Achitophel  still  wants  a  chief,  and  none 
Was  found  so  fit  as  warlike  Absalom."  ' 

No,  this  latter  poem  is  not  so  fine  as  that  earlier.  'Twas 
a  wonderful  parallel  to  Shaftesbury  and  the  Duke  of 
Monmouth.  Old  Dryden  has  read  his  Bible  to  some 
purpose.  This  poem  fills  up  some  gaps  in  the  other,  but 
'twill  never  have  such  influence." 

By  this  time  the  boat  had  reached  the  landing-place, 
and  the  two  brothers  separated,  Randolph  to  go  to  his 
favorite  coffee-house,  Hugo  to  go  to  his  chambers  to  doff 
his  student's  cap  and  gown  for  the  cloak,  sword,  and 
broad-brimmed  hat  which  he  wore  in  ordinary  life.  That 
reference  to  Mondisfield  Hall  had  put  him  into  a  state  of 
internal  tumult  which,  with  all  his  philosophy  and  all  his 
easy  temper,  he  could  not  quell.  That  he  might  some 
day  be  called  upon  to  make  use  of  the  information 
obtained  on  that  October  night  was,  whenever  it  occurred 
to  him,  a  haunting  dread.  He  had  a  great  faculty  for 
dismissing  all  thoughts  of  disagreeable  matters,  but  every 
now  and  then  this  skeleton  in  his  cupboard  would  disturb 
his  peace.  On  this  December  afternoon,  he  could  not 
quiet  it  To  read  was  impossible ;  the  silence  of  the 
chambers  in  King's  Bench  walk  was  intolerable  to  him. 
He  at  length  resolved  to  go  to  his  usual  haven  of  refuge, 
the  Denhams'  house  in  Norfolk  Street  If  any  one  could 
exorcise  the  troublesome  fiend,  it  would  be  Mary  Den- 
ham  ;  and  fate  was  kind  to  him,  for  Sir  William  was  asleep 
on  a  couch  at  the  far  end  of  the  withdrawing-room,  and 
Mary  sat  by  the  hearth  with  her  needle-work,  ready  to 
charm  away  his  melancholy. 

"Stir  the  fire  into  a  blaze,  "she  said.  "The  light  is 
growing  dim,  and  methinks  there  is  something  in  your 
face  to  be  read.  What  has  happened  ? " 

"Naught  has  happened— naught  of  any  note,  that  is," 
he  replied,  taking  very  good  care  to  stir  the  fire  gently, 
lest  Sir  William  should  awake,  "  I  have  just  been  reading 
the  new  part  of  'Absalom  and  Achitophel.'" 

"Has  that  made  you  so  melancholy?  For  my  part, 
whether  agreeing  with  it  or  not,  I  could  not  help  enjoy- 
ing it.  'Tis  a  wondrous  satire." 

Hugo  made  no  reply  ;  he  seemed  to  have  fallen  into  a 
reverie.  That  he  should  show  so  slight  an  interest  in  the 
new  poem  was  strange,  and  Mary,  who  knew  him  better 
than  any  one  in  the  world,  felt  certain  that  he  had  some- 


92 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 


thing  weighing  on  his  mind.  Was  he  thinking  of  that 
blue-eyed  Suffolk  maiden  ?  she  wondered.  And  with  a 
little  sigh,  acknowledged  to  herself  that  it  was  very  prob- 
able. If  only  he  would  have  taken  her  into  his  confi- 
dence, she  could  have  borne  it  so  much  better  !  And, 
after  all,  had  they  not  known  each  other  far  too  long  to 
let  foolish  ceremony  stand  between  them  ?  There  was  a 
chance,  too,  that  she  might  be  able  to  help  him,  at  any 
rate  to  cheer  him,  and  her  love  to  Hugo  was  too  deep  to 
admit  of  selfish  considerations  coming  in  to  hinder  her. 
She  had  suffered  much  during  the  last  few  weeks,  but 
this  made  her  only  the  more  anxious  that  he  should  be 
happy  in  his  love.  It  was  of  his  happiness  that  she 
thought — her  own  was  a  secondary  matter.  Therefore 
there  could  be  no  jealousy  in  her  love.  She  loved  already 
this  unknown  "Joyce, "just  because  she  knew  that  he 
loved  her. 

"Hugo,  she  said,  after  some  minutes  had  passed  in 
silence,  "  you  did  not  come  hither  to  stare  into  the  fire, 
you  came  to  talk  to  me. " 

"  How  did  you  know  that  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  looking  up 
with  a  startled  face. 

"  You  had  '  I  want  to  talk  with  some  one  '  writ  in  plain 
characters  on  your  forehead,"  she  said  smiling.  "And 
the  older  and  wiser  part  of  the  family  is  either  out  or 
asleep,  you  see.  Talk  to  me,  Hugo ;  tell  me  what 
troubles  you. " 

Her  manner  was  irresistible. 

"  It  is  just  that  I  can  speak  of  it  to  no  one  that  troubles 
me,  he  replied,  looking  up  to  her  clear,  sympathizing  eyes. 
"  It  is  merely  a  dread — a  dread  that  haunts  me  at  times." 

"  And  it  has  haunted  you  since  the  fifth  day  of  last 
October?  "  she  said  softly,  thinking  of  the  duel  and  of  fair 
Joyce  Wharncliffe. 

Hugo  turned  ashy  pale. 

"  How  can  you  possibly  know  ? "  he  cried.  "  Who  has 
told  you  ? " 

"No  one  told  me,  yet,  nevertheless,  I  know,"  said  Mary, 
quietly.  "  You  love  Mistress  Joyce  Wharncliffe,  and  you 
fear  that  you  may  never  see  her  more." 

"I  shall  never  see  her  more,  'tis  true" — his  face  soft- 
ened. "I  love  her  ;  that  also  is  true." 

He  paused.  Mary's  hands  trembled  slightly  ;  she  was 
obliged  to  let  her  needle-work  fall,  and  clasp  her  hands 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  KS,  93 

together.  That  was  the  only  sign  of  agitation  which  es- 
caped her,  and  afterwards  she  was  even  more  quiet  in 
manner  than  usual,  sitting  there  in  her  high-backed  chair 
by  the  hearth,  with  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  and  her 
calm  eyes  watching  Hugo's  face. 

"  How  did  you  find  this  out?  "said  Hugo  at  length. 
"You  are  a  witch,  Mary,  to  read  a  man's  private  thoughts 
and  innermost  heart." 

"A  very  bad  compliment  for  my  sympathetic  penetra- 
tion," she  said,  smiling,  "I  have  no  desire  to  try  the 
ducking-stool !  But,  as  I  tell  you,  you  bear  things  writ 
on  your  forehead,  and  I  could  not  help  knowing — or 
rather  feeling  almost  sure." 

"Oh,  Mary,"  he  exclaimed,  "  if  you  could  but  see  her  I 
She  is  so  fresh  and  fair  and  lovely  !  Winsome  as  a  child, 
and  yet  with  the  heart  of  a  woman  all  the  time." 

"And  she  is  beautiful?"  questioned  Mary. 

"So  beautiful  that  one  would  dread  to  think  of  her  ever 
leaving  that  quiet  country  home,  where  she  lives  so  shel- 
tered a  life.  And  she  is  as  good  as  she  is  beautiful,  yet 
there  is  about  her  nothing  stiff,  or  narrow,  or  puritanic, 
except  it  be  the  purity  of  her  heart  and  life,  which  might 
be  deemed  puritanic  at  court." 

"You  would  be  the  last  to  wish  to  bring  her  there," 
said  Mary.  "But,  Hugo,  I  see  no  cause  for  dread  in  all 
this.  Just  for  the  present  you  may  not  be  able  to  see 
her  again,  but  what  then  ?  You  are  both  young — all  life 
is  before  you.  And  Love  can  surely  overcome  a  few 
obstacles,  else  it  were  not  worthy  the  name." 

"That  is  not  the  dread  which  haunts  me,  that  is  some- 
thing widely  different.  Mary,  promise  not  to  question 
me,  promise  to  reveal  to  no  living  soul  any  thoughts  which 
may  connect  themselves  with  what  I  shall  say.  Of  this 
dread  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  speak  in  plain  words.  But  thus 
far  help  me.  Suppose  to  yourself  such  a  case  as  the  fol- 
lowing. A  father  becomes  acquainted  with  certain  facts 
which  may  be  of  great  use  to  the  Government ;  he  makes 
his  son  observe  the  said  facts,  that  he  may  be  able  to 
bring  him  forward  as  a  second  witness.  The  son,  owing 
obedience  to  the  Government,  and  having  sworn  in  all 
things  to  obey  his  father,  has  grave  doubts  as  to  the  way 
in  which  the  information  has  been  obtained — thinks  it 
was  treacherously  obtained.  Moreover,  he,  beginning  to 
think  for  himself,  sees  that  ' '  oppression  "  is  the  watch- 


Q4  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

word  of  his  father's  party,  and  "liberty  "the  watchword 
of  the  oppressed.  This,  at  any  rate,  he  thinks  he  sees  ; 
but  being  as  yet  young,  ignorant,  lacking  experience,  he 
is  scarce  fit  for  any  sort  of  action.  When  the  time  comes, 
and  he  is  called  upon  to  bear  witness  to  what  he  has  seen, 
what  course  is  he  to  pursue  ?  " 

Mary  was  silent.  She  was  too  wise  a  counsellor  ever 
to  be  in  a  hurry,  and  this  was  a  curious  and  complicated 
case  which  Hugo  had  put  before  her. 

"  Tis  very  hard  to  see  what  would  be  right,"  she 
said  at  length.  "I  cannot  yet  feel  sure,  but  in  such  ex- 
tremity it  would  doubtless  be  borne  in  upon  a  man  what 
he  ought  to  do.  His  conscience  would  show  him  what 
was  right." 

"Conscience  !  "  he  exclaimed,  impatiently,  longing  for 
some  infallible  authority  outside  himself.  "  Conscience  1 
I  want  something  more  definite,  more  unmistakable  than 
that." 

"Surely,"  she  said,  "that  is  definite,  if  we  train  our- 
selves to  listen  to  it,  and  ever  in  all  things  obey  it" 

"But  conscience  is  the  plea  of  the  conventiclers  ;  they 
profess  to  suffer  for  conscience'  sake." 

"And  doubtless  do,"  said  Mary.  "Do  you  not  think 
that  they  may  truly  and  honestly  be  following  their  con- 
science, and  playing  that  part  in  the  world's  history  which 
God  saw  to  be  right  and  necessary  ?  And  in  truth,  Hugo, 
I  thought  not  to  hear  you  of  all  people  speak  against  this. 
Unless  I  am  much  mistaken,  unless  Rupert  has  misled 
me,  there  was  once  a  time  when  you  braved  the  sneers  of 
the  on-lookers  and  took  your  stand  on  this  same  con- 
science-hearkening. " 

Hugo  could  once  more  see  in  imagination  that  Suffolk 
road-side,  could  once  more  feel  that  terrible  struggle 
which,  though  he  did  not  know  it,  had  rendered  it  for- 
ever impossible  for  him  to  return  to  his  old  peaceful  sub- 
mission and  self-effacement. 

' '  But  then  I  saw  clearly  what  was  right.  That  was  a 
very  simple  case.  Now,  in  the  case  of  that  son  whom  I 
mentioned  to  you,  matters  are  different,  there  is  no  plain 
right  and  plain  wrong." 

"  But  th«re  will  be  when  the  time  comes,"  said  Mary, 
quietly. 

"But  how  to  see  it — to  be  sure  of  it?"  he  faltered 
"Worst  of  all,  how  to  do  it !  " 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  95 

"Yes,  there  will  be  the  hard  part,"  said  Mary,  thought- 
fully. "The  seeing  will  surely  be  clear  enough,  but  the 
doing  ?  "  She  was  silent  for  a  minute.  When  she  spoke 
again  her  face  had  changed,  and  there  was  something  of 
diffidence  in  her  voice. 

"It  has  made  me  think  of  one  day  long  ago  when  you 
and  Rupert  had  both  got  into  trouble  at  school,  the  time 
when  Dr.  Busby  set  you  to  learn  all  the  collects  and  all 
the  articles." 

"And  flogged  us  till  we  said  them  without  a  fault," 
said  Hugo,  laughing.  "I  remember  that  part  well 
enough,  but  the  collects  and  the  articles  I  have  clean  for- 
gotten. " 

"And  I  too,  the  greater  number,  though  I  learnt  them 
with  you,"  said  Mary.  "But  there  is  one  that  always 
seemed  to  me  so  precisely  what  one  wanted  that  I  never 
could  forget  it,  and  from  that  day  forth  ever  used  it.  It 
is  the  one  about  "the  spirit  to  think  and  do  always  such 
things  as  be  rightful.'  " 

"  I  too  will  use  it,"  he  said,  quickly.  "  Ah  !  how  long 
ago  those  days  seem,  Mary.  Can  you  not  remember  how 
we  all  three  sat  up  in  the  attic  with  Sir  William's  big 
prayer-book  ?  I  can  see  the  room  now  and  the  window 
that  looked  out  on  the  river.  The  only  article  I  have  the 
ghost  of  a  recollection  of  is  "Original  sin,"  "As  the  Pe- 
lagians do  vainly  talk," — I  can  say  that  one  sentence; 
and,  as  we  learnt  it,  I  remember  the  king's  barge  went 
past,  and  there  came  sounds  of  music  and  distant  babel 
of  voices.  I  ever  think  of  the  "Pelagians"  when  in  a 
great  assembly  one  hears  the  buzz  of  voices  and  can  dis- 
tinguish no  words." 

Mary  smiled,  and  in  another  minute  their  tele-a-tite  was 
ended,  for  Colonel  Sydney  was  announced,  and  Hugo,  in 
the  happiness  of  meeting  his  hero,  had  no  more  thought 
for  the  skeleton  in  his  cupboard. 

"  I  have  had  tickets  presented  to  me  for  Dryden's  new 
play,"  said  Sydney.  "  I  came  to  know  whether  I  might 
have  the  pleasure  of  escorting  you  and  your  aunt,  Mis- 
tress Mary." 

"We  should  greatly  enjoy  it,"  said  Mary.  "My  aunt 
was  talking  of  it  but  now  at  dinner." 

"They  would  both  fain  see  the  new  play,"  said  Sit 
William,  who  had  been  roused  by  Sydney's  entrance 


96  tN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. ' 

"  As  for  me  1  have  no  time  to  spare  for  the  theatre,  and 
they  are  ever  glad  of  an  escort " 

"I  seldom  affect  it  myself,"  said  Sydney,  "but  they 
tell  me  that  this  play  is  so  fraught  with  political  design 
that  one  ought  to  see  it  Mr.  Dryden  has  become  the 
mere  tool  of  the  court  of  late.  Tis  pity  that  a  man  of 
such  parts  should  so  demean  himself." 

"And  he  gains  but  little  by  it,n  said  Hugo.  "  I  heard 
him  say  but  yesternight  at  Will's,  that  his  salary  as  lau- 
reate had  not  been  paid  for  years. " 

"  Poor  devil !  "  said  Sydney.  "And  in  the  mean  time 
the  Duchess  of  Portsmouth  enjoys  12, coo/,  a-year  of  the 
nation's  money  !  Well,  you  will  allow  me  to  escort  you 
then?  I  will  be  with  you  presently.  And  you,"  turning 
to  Hugo,  "  you  will  accompany  us,  will  you  not?  " 

After  such  an  invitation  from  his  hero,  it  was  not  to  be 
imagined  for  a  moment  that  thoughts  of  perplexing  cases 
of  conscience,  of  plots  and  revelations  should  trouble 
Hugo.  When  that  evening  he  entered  Drury  Lane  with 
Sydney,  Lady  Denham,  and  Mary,  he  was  probably  the 
happiest  person  in  the  theatre.  Life,  with  that  one  excep- 
tion of  the  skeleton  now  securely  locked  away,  seemed  to 
him  particularly  bright  and  hopeful.  Mary  had  spoken 
cheering  words  to  him  about  Joyce,  and  had  proved  her- 
self a  delightfully  sympathetic  listener.  Randolph  had 
treated  him  as  an  equal  and  a  friend,  Sydney  had  not  only 
asked  him  to  the  play,  but  had  insisted  that  he  should  go 
back  aftenvards  and  sup  with  him. 

This  evening  of  the  4th  December,  1682,  was  a  memo- 
rable evening  in  the  theatrical  world.  London  had  at 
that  time  two  theatres,  Drury  Lane,  known  as  the  King's 
House,  and  the  Duke's  House  in  Dorset  Gardens.  This 
latter  house  was  rich  in  the  possession  of  Betterton,  the 
greatest  actor  of  the  day,  and  they  mounted  their  plays 
far  better  than  was  done  at  Drury  Lane. 

London  was  not  large  enough,  however,  to  support  two 
theatres  comfortably,  and  for  the  last  few  years  the 
management  of  the  Duke's  had  done  all  in  their  power  to 
cripple  Killegrevv,  the  manager  of  the  King's  House,  so 
that  he  might  be  forced  to  consent  to  a  union.  This  had 
just  been  effected,  and  this  evening  was  to  witness  the 
first  new  play  brought  out  by  the  united  companies.  The 
choice  was  doubtless  a  wise  one,  for  not  only  was  Dryden 
extremely  popular,  but  this  particular  play  of  the 


iff  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  97 

of  Guise  "  had  already  been  much  talked  of.  It  had  been 
in  the  hands  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain  for  some  months, 
he  had  hesitated  whether  to  license  it  or  not,  for  the  par- 
allel between  the  Duke  of  Guise  and  the  Duke  of  Mon« 
mouth,  and  their  respective  plots  against  their  kings,  was 
dangerously  close.  At  length,  however,  he  had  yielded, 
and  on  the  first  night  every  one  rushed  to  see  the  long- 
talked-of  piece.  The  house  was  crowded  in  everjr  part, 
and  in  the  pit  was  a  turbulent  assembly  who,  if  not 
pleased,  would  assuredly  express  their  feelings  loudly. 
Sydney  studied  the  audience  with  his  keen,  thoughtful 
eyes  ;  even  now  Hugo  felt  sure  he  was  musing  as  ever  on 
the  state  of  the  country,  closely  watching  the  people  that 
he  might  as  far  as  possible  know  the  state  of  their  feelings, 
and  rightly  estimate  their  worth.  At  length  the  buzz  of 
conversation  was  hushed,  the  roar  of  the  "  Pelagians,"  as 
Hugo  would  have  put  it,  was  suddenly  stilled,  for  Smith, 
one  of  the  best  actors,  appeared  before  the  curtain  to 
speak  the  prologue. 

He  spoke  it  well,  and  it  was  undoubtedly  clever,  but 
from  the  bold  beginning,  "Our  play's  a  parallel,"  the 
whole  thing  bristled  with  bitter  allusions  to  the  events  of 
the  day,  ending  with  a  piece  of  satire  which  could  not  fail 
to  enrage  the  Whigs. 

•*  Make  London  independent  of  the  crown : 
A  realm  apart :  the  kingdom  of  the  town. 
Let  ignoramus  juries  find  no  traitors, 
And  ignoramus  poets  scribble  satires. 
And,  that  your  meaning  none  may  fail  to  scan, 
Do  what  in  coffee-houses  you  began, — 
Pull  down  the  master,  ana  set  up  the  man." 

The  play  opened  with  a  scene  representing  a  meetiv.g 
of  the  Council  of  Sixteen,  who  were  the  leaders  of  the 
conspiracy.  A  reference  to  sheriffs  .and  charters  made 
the  Whig  portion  of  the  audience  angry,  but  they  re 
strained  themselves  until  Bussy,  one  of  the  conspirator^ 
uttered  the  words, 

"  Our  city  bands  are  twenty  thousand  strong." 

Now  Shaftesbury  had  been  wont  to  boast  of  his  "  twenty 
thousand  brisk  boys  in  the  city,"  whom  he  could  summon 
at  a  moment's  notice,  and  a  storm  of  hisses  greeted  this 
allusion. 
1 


98  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

The  following  scene  between  a  musician  who  had 
espoused  the  cause  of  Guise,  and  the  Devil,  rather  amused 
the  audience,  but  signs  were  not  wanting  before  long  that 
the  play  would  stir  up  yet  greater  enmity  between  the 
two  parties. 

As  for  Sydney,  he  sat  in  his  place  gravely  watching  the 
development  of  the  story,  making  no  sign  whatever,  till 
in  the  third  act  the  scene  between  Grillon  and  the  sheriffs 
produced  a  riotous  expression  of  disapproval  from  a  great 
part  of  the  audience,  and  a  frown  upon  his  calm  brow. 

With  the  fourth  act,  matters  only  grew  worse.  The 
scene  in  the  Louvre,  in  which  the  king  has  an  interview 
with  the  Duke  of  Guise,  could  not  fail  to  offend  all  who 
had  the  slightest  regard  for  Monmouth.  The  appearance 
of  an  evil  spirit  in  the  garb  of  a  preacher  of  the  Gospel, 
and  his  assurance  that  "  ten  thousand  devils  more  are  in 
this  habit,"  also  gave  great  offence ;  while  the  touching 
scenes  between  Marmoutiere  and  Guise  were  so  evidently 
intended  to  refer  to  the  Duchess  of  Monmouth,  and  her 
endeavors  to  restrain  her  husband,  that  the  audience  hissed 
angrily.  At  length,  Guise  having  been  murdered  in  the 
palace,  the  King  pronounced  his  coldly  prudent  wish  that 
Fate  might  bring  every  traitor  to  ruin  who  dared  the 
"  vengeance  of  indulgent  kings,"  and  the  play  closed. 

Then  Mrs.  Cook,  a  favorite  actress,  stepped  before  the 
curtain,  and  spoke  the  epilogue,  which  by  its  coarse  bru- 
tality, could  not  but  disgust  every  unprejudiced  person. 

"  Good  Lord  !  "  exclaimed  Sydney,  "what  will  women 
come  to?  Methinks  jesting  about  hangmen  ill  becomes 
them. " 

His  words  were  half  lost  in  the  deafening  tumult  which 
ensued.  Applause  from  one  half  of  the  house,  and  indig- 
nant expressions  of  disgust  from  the  other.  A  desperate 
endeavor  on  the  part  of  the  court  party  to  prevent  the  play 
being  damned  on  its~first  night,  and  a  storm  of  groans  and 
hisses  from  the  Whigs. 

The  house  was  still  all  in  an  uproar  when  Sydney  sug- 
gested to  the  ladies  that  they  should  leave,  and  having 
escorted  them  to  their  coach,  he  put  his  arm  within  Hugo's, 
and  with  a  man  bearing  a  link  in  front  of  them,  they 
walked  to  his  house,  never  once  speaking. 

Hugo  had  hitherto  met  Sydney  either  at  the  Denhams 
or  at  one  of  the  coffee-houses  ;  he  had  never  before  been 
to  his  house,  and  coming  that  evening  from  the  Egyptian 


Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  9^ 

darkness  of  the  streets,  which  were  lighted  only  by  the 
links  which  foot-passengers  were  fain  to  carry,  he  was 
almost  too  much  dazzled  by  the  sudden  return  to  bright 
lights  to  see.  Sydney  took  him  into  a  room  where  prep- 
arations for  supper  were  being  made  by  a  French  man- 
servant. 

"Mr.  Wharncliffe  will  sup  with  me,  Ducasse.  Lay 
covers  for  two,"  he  said  ;  then,  as  the  man  left  the  room, 
"That  is  my  faithful  servant,  and  at  the  same  time  my 
friend,  Joseph  Ducasse.  I  should  have  fared  ill  without 
him." 

"We  too  know  what  a  faithful  serving-man  can  prove," 
said  Hugo.  "  We  have  one  of  Cromwell's  Ironsides,  as 
staunch  and  trusty  an  old  fellow  as  any  in  England. 
'Twas  he  that  taught  me  your  name  as  a  boy."- 

"What!  Was  he  in  my  troop?"  questioned  Sydney, 
his  face  lighting  up  with  keen  interest. 

"I  think  not,"  said  Hugo.  "He  was  ever  in  Crom- 
well's regiment.  But  he  mentioned  seeing  you  at  Marston 
Moor. " 

' '  Perchance  he  is  my  brave  rescuer  !  "  exclaimed  Syd- 
ney. "Did  he  ever  tell  you  of  the  deed  of  gallantry  to 
which  I  owe  my  life  ?  " 

"Nay,  I  have  heardnaught  of  any  rescue,"  said  Hugo; 
"but  he  used  to  tell  of  the  battle,  and  of  how  gallantly 
you  charged  that  evening  at  the  head  of  my  Lord  Man- 
chester's regiment  of  horse,  and  how  when  men  were  being 
mowed  down  beside  you  like  grain,  you  ever  kept  a 
good  courage,  and  persevered  long  after  you  were  sore 
wounded." 

"Methinks,  then,  I  may  at  last  have  found  my  gallant 
rescuer,"  said  Sydney.  "  Draw  your  chair  to  the  hearth  ; 
I  will  tell  you  a  story.  That  same  evening,  on  Marston 
Moor,  we  had  had  the  sharpest  work  I  had  ever  seen.  I 
was  then  but  a  little  older  than  you  are  now,  and  had  not 
had  overmuch  experience  ;  but  there  are  many  who  main- 
tain still  that  the  fighting  there  was  more  severe  than  at 
any  other  battle  during  the  whole  war.  It  was  evening 
when  it  began — seven  o'clock.  Well,  we  had  been  fight- 
ing for  what  seemed  an  eternity,  and,  but  for  Cromwell's 
timely  aid,  should  have  been  routed.  I  was  in  command 
of  a  troop  of  horse  in  my  Lord  Manchester's  regiment,  and 
Goring  was  giving  us  an  ill  time  of  it,  when  Cromwell, 
having  utterly , routed  P^ce  Ruperfs  troopers,  came  to 


100  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

our  help.  By  that  time  I  had  fallen,  desperately  wounded. 
I  can  well  remember  coming-to  after  an  interval  of  uncon- 
sciousness. The  sunset  light  had  faded  out  of  the  sky  ; 
but  the  moon  had  risen,  and  there  was  light  enough  to 
show  me  that  I  was  within  the  enemy's  power.  At  that 
minute,  however,  there  stepped  forward  from  the  ranks 
one  of  Cromwell's  Ironsides,  rushed  onward  to  where  I 
lay,  seized  me  in  his  arms,  and  bore  me  off  into  safety. 
Seeing  his  great  love  and  courage,  I  naturally  desired  to 
know  his  name,  that  I  might  in  some  way  reward  him. 
What  do  you  think  the  noble  fellow  replied?  "Sir,"  he 
said,  "  I  did  it  not  for  that,  but  merely  for  the  love  of  you. 
And,  therefore,  as  to  my  name,  I  desire  to  be  excused." 

"And  you  never  learnt  who  he  was ? " 

"Never. .  To  this  day  I  have  not  the  faintest  idea.  No 
one  noticed  him  ;  how  could  they,  in  the  midst  of  such  a 
fight  ?  Among  five  thousand  slain,  the  rescue  of  one  in- 
significant unit  is  little  likely  to  draw  notice.  It  will  re- 
main forever  unknown  save  to  him  that  did  it. " 

"  It  would  have  been  just  like  Jeremiah,"  said  Hugo, 
musing.  "But,  of  course,  I  could  never  ask  him." 

"No,  no,"  said  Sydney;  "let  it  remain  as  the  brave 
fellow  would  have  it  He  shall  be  forever  unknown, 
yet  never  forgotten.  Come,  let  us  sup  ;  if  that  accursed 
play  has  not  spoilt  your  appetite." 

"I  fear  I  am  too  much  of  a  'damned  neuter*  for 
that,"  said  Hugo,  smiling  and  quoting  the  words  of  the 
epilogue, 

"'Neither  fish,  nor  flesh,  nor  good  red-herring,' 

as  Mrs.  Cook  would  say." 

Sydney  made  no  reply  for  a  minute.  The  speech  was 
one  which  he  could  little  understand,  and  he  was  not  as 
a  rule  patient  with  aught  that  did  not  coincide  with  his 
own  views,  while  opposition  of  any  sort  invariably  called 
forth  that  overbearing  temper  which  was  well  known  to 
all  his  acquaintances.  But  there  was  something  about 
Hugo  which  made  it  impossible  to  take  exception  to  his 
words,  however  little  in  accord  with  the  hearer's  opinions. 
He  was  so  frank,  so  outspoken,  and  yet  so  humble  that 
it  was  impossible  to  treat  him  like  the  rest  of  the  world. 
Moreover,  although  people  in  general  were  quite  ready  to 
credit  Sydney  with  resolute  courage,  and  the  "huge  deal 
of  wit  "  which  his  mother  had  discovered  in  him  while  but 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  IO1 

a  lad  of  fourteen,  they  had  not  the  insight  to  perceive  the 
"  sweetness  of  nature  "  which  Lady  Leicester  had  chroni- 
cled as  perceived  by  all  his  early  French  acquaintances. 

Perhaps  he  had  now  to  a  certain  extent  been  soured  by 
the  difficulties  and  disappointments  of  a  singularly  wearing 
life.  But  there  were  some  few  who  were  able  to  perceive 
and  to  touch  into  life  that  tenderness,  that  lovingness, 
which  was  hidden  under  the  stern  exterior  ;  and  of  these 
was  Hugo.  Therefore  the  two  were  always  happy  in 
each  other's  society.  Each  awakened  in  his  companion 
that  quality  which  was  most  apt  to  lie  dormant — in  Syd- 
ney tenderness,  in  Hugo  strength. 

"  You  will  not  ever  be  a  '  damned  neuter,'"  said  Syd- 
ney, after  the  silence,  in  which  he  had  been  thoughtfully 
watching  Hugo's  face.  "The  world  cannot  spare  you, 
Hugo  ;  some  day  you  will  prove  worker  as  well  as 
watcher." 

"And  yet,  though  I  know  you  abhor  them,  I  cannot 
but  see  some  merit  in  these  much-abused  "Trimmers," 
said  Hugo.  "  Surely  the  truth  doth  oftentimes  lie  betwixt 
extremes  ?  Surely  there  is  much  to  be  said  on  either  side  ? 
And  then  definitely  committing  yourself  '  to  a  party,  you 
commit  yourself,  maybe,  to  much  that  you  do  not  alto- 
gether approve." 

"  Life  is  a  long  series  of  minor  disappointments,"  said 
Sydney.  "Every  failure  to  meet  with  your  own  ideal, 
both  in  private  affairs  and  in  the  affairs  of  the  nation,  is  a 
disappointment.  But  what  then  :  such  things  are  inevi- 
table, you  must  make  up  your  mind  to  them.  You  have 
thought,  have  studied  the  case,  have  arrived  at  your  ideal 
of  government ;  we  will  say  that  it  is  a  Republic.  Good ; 
then  unite  yourself  with  that  party  which  works  hard  to 
secure  the  rights  of  the  people  from  wrongful  invasion. 
What  though  perchance  they  go  not  so  far  as  you  would 
have  them  in  some  matters  and  further  in  others  ?  You 
have  to  look  at  the  matter  in  gross,  not  in  detail ;  you 
must  weigh  the  advantages  with  the  disadvantages. 
Otherwise  there  could  be  no  national  progress  ;  the  spirits 
that  can  see  a  little  further  than  their  fellows  would  all 
stand  aloof,  so  many  helpless  units  of  no  service  to  their 
country.  Union  is  strength,  and  to  obtain  union  those 
who  love  the  people  and  would  fain  serve  their  country, 
must  be  willing,  as  far  as  may  honorably  be,  to  sink  their 
differences.  Should  your  party  be  faithless  to  the  cause 


1 02  Of  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

of  freedom,  then  leave  it  and  go  back  to  your  plough  like 
Cincinnatus.     That  is  what  I  myself  was  forced  to  do." 


that  be  for  the  good  of  the  country  ?  " 

"If  you  mean  would  I  advise  any  man  to  volunteer 
to-day  for  Monmouth's  cause,  I  would  reply  no,  without 
hesitation  ;  the  people  love  him,  but  the  times  are  not  yet 
ripe.  It  behoves  all  men,  however,  to  watch  the  signs  of 
the  times,  and  to  be  ready  for  instant  action  when  the 
tyranny  hath  grown  insupportable.  As  for  me,  it  is  all 
one  to  me  whether  James,  Duke  of  York,  or  James,  Duke 
of  Monmouth,  be  king,  so  long  as  the  people  regain  their 
rights.  Monmoiith's  chiefest  recommendation  to  me  is 
this  :  his  title  will  not  be  altogether  good,  therefore  he  will 
be  sure  to  rule  well  and  for  the  benefit  of  his  people  ;  'twill 
be  to  his  own  interest." 

"Are  you  acquainted  with  him  ?  " 

"  I  have  but  met  him  twice,"  said  Sydney.  "  The  first 
time  my  Lord  Howard  cozened  us  both,  told  jie  the  duke 
would  fain  be  introduced  to  me,  and  told  the  duke  that  I 
had  begged  him  to  make  us  acquainted." 

"Not  over-scrupulous,"  said  Hugo  smiling. 

"No;  yet  he  did  it  doubtless  with  a  good  intent.  I 
believe  Howard  to  be  a  true  patriot,  and  this  he  thought 
was  doubtless  warrantable  for  the  good  of  the  country." 

"And  think  you  the  duke's  cause  is  indeed  strong  ?  " 

"Strong,  yet  not  strong  enough,"  said  Sydney.  "All 
that  wise  men  can  do  is  to  watch  and  be  ready,  to  know 
each  other,  and  to  know  who  may  be  trusted.  I  am 
trusting  you  not  a  little  by  speaking  thus  boldly,  for  in 
these  days  I  might  be  sent  to  the  Tower  for  using  such, 
freedom  of  speech.  Yet  methinks  I  would  right  willingly 
trust  you  with  my  life." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Hugo's  cheeks,  his  quiet,  gray 
eyes  shone  with  a  strange  light 

"  I'  faith,  sir,  I  would  gladly  die  for  you,"  he  said,  in  a 
low  voice,  ' '  could  that  prove  my  love. " 

There  was  such  perfect  sincerity  in  his  manner  that 
even  a  very  hardhearted  person  could  not  fail  to  have 
been  touched.  As  for  Sydney,  his  eyes  grew  soft  and 
humid,  and  his  stern  face  relaxed  into  a  smile  which 
Hugo  remembered  to  his  dying  day. 


Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  103 

"I  believe  you,  my  son,"  he  said,  grasping  his  hand. 
'And  I  trust  you  with  all  my  heart" 


CHAPTER  DC 

THE  MASQUE  AT  GRAY*S  IN*. 

Thus  fortune's  pleasant  fruits  by  friends  increased  be 
The  bitter,  sharp,  and  sour  by  friends  allay'd  to  thee $ 
That  when  them  dost  rejoice,  then  doubled  is  thy  joy  | 
And  eke  in  cause  of  care  the  less  is  thy  annoy. 

ANON.  1557. 

RANDOLPH  watched  with  some  curiosity  the  progress  of 
Hugo's  development.  That  winter  he  left  him  very  much 
to  himself,  exacting  implicit  obedience,  as  ever,  but  tak- 
ing good  care  to  issue  but  few  commands.  He  also  in- 
creased his  influence  over  him  by  showing  much  more 
interest  in  his  concerns,  and  even  at  times  treating  him 
with  an  affection  which  bound  his  brother  to  him  as  noth- 
ing else  could  have  done. 

Hugo  had  never  in  his  life  been  so  happy,  and  insen- 
sibly he  began  to  rely  less  on  his  books  for  interest  and 
for  companionship.  The  world  of  realities,  the  world 
political,  the  world  of  living  men  and  women,  began  to 
interest  him  as  it  had  never  done  before,  and,  under 
Sydney's  guidance,  his  character  rapidly  strengthened 
and  matured — rapidly,  yet  to  him  self,  of  course,  insensibly. 

He  found  the  days  of  that  winter  almost  too  short  for 
all  the  interests  that  had  to  be  crowded  into  them.  He 
was  introduced  to  the  Green  Ribbon  Club,  at  Chancery 
Lane  end,  where  the  "advanced"  men  of  the  time  used 
to  meet,  much  scoffed  at  by  the  Tories.  He  was  con- 
stantly with  Sydney,  who,  now  that  his  friend  Penn  had 
gone  to  America  to  carry  out  the  system  of  government 
which  he  and  Sydney  had  devised  between  them,  was 
glad  enough  of  some  fresh  interest.  He  was  still  as  faith- 
ful as  ever  to  the  Denhams.  His  spare  time  would  often 
be  spent  in  Sir  William's  private  laboratory,  or  in  long  ex- 
cursions into  the  surrounding  country  in  search  of  spoils, 
animal  or  vegetable,  for  the  use  of  one  or  another  of  his 
scientific  friends.  He  was  asked  more  than  once  by  the 
little  Duchess  of  Grafton  to  meet  interesting  celebrities  at 


104  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

her  father's  house,  and  Randolph  insisted  upon  a  certain 
amount  of  attendance  at  the  court.  Thus,  with  his  nec- 
essary routine  of  study,  his  time  was  fully  occupied,  and 
contact  with  the  world  and  the  necessity  of  managing  for 
himself  began  to  turn  him  into  something  more  like  the 
man  of  action  after  Jeremiah's  own  heart.  Apparently  he 
was  going  to  surprise  the  old  soldier  after  all,  and  prove 
himself  to  be  better  than  a  mere  visionary.  So  far  all 
was  well.  He  had  never  been  a  great  talker,  and  he  had 
revealed  to  his  brother  nothing  whatever  of  the  conver- 
sation which  passed  between  him  and  Sydney.  Ran- 
dolph knew  better  tha*n  to  ask  him,  and  was  quite  capable 
of  playing  a  waiting  game.  So  all  went  happily,  and  had 
any  one  told  Hugo  that  a  snare  was  laid  for  him,  and 
that  underneath  all  this  fair  semblance  was  a  hideous 
reality,  he  would  not  have  believed  him.  The  sincere 
are  always  slow  to  suspect  insincerity  in  others.  Almost 
invariably  they  have  to  buy  their  experience,  and  to  pay 
a  high  price  for  it 

For  Mary  Denham  the  time  went  but  heavily  ;  being 
proud  with  that  sort  of  maidenly  pride  which  was  perhaps 
more  often  to  be  found  in  past  times,  she  barely  confessed 
her  trouble  to  her  own  heart  even.  That  it  was  there  she 
knew  full  well,  but  she  rarely,  if  ever,  formed  it  into  words 
in  her  own  mind.  Instead,  she  devised  a  new  set  of  em- 
broidered covers  for  the  chairs  in  the  withdrawing-room, 
and,  rinding  that  insufficient,  she  took  Sydney's  advice, 
and  threw  herself  into  her  uncle's  pursuits  with  an  ardor 
which  gained  for  her  the  nickname  of  the  "Blue-stock- 
ing" from  Rupert.  Perhaps  inevitably  her  manner  to- 
wards Hugo  changed  a  little.  The  change  was  extremely 
slight,  and  yet  to  one  of  his  acute  perceptions  it  could  not 
remain  unnoticed.  It  troubled  him  a.  little  even  in  the 
midst  of  his  happiness,  and  in  all  the  excitement  of  his 
first  entrance  into  London  life,  but,  manlike,  it  never  oc- 
curred to  him  to  connect  the  change  with  that  talk  they 
had  had  about  Joyce  Wharncliffe. 

It  was  not  until  Christmas  Day  that  he  had  any  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  her  alone.  Christmas  was  not  an  alto- 
gether enjoyable  time  to  him,  but  he  had  a  certain  affec- 
tion for  the  day,  and  this  year  was  his  first  opportunity  of 
sharing  it  all  through  with  Randolph,  for  on  the  previous 
Christmas  he  had  not  been  admitted  as  a  student  at  the 
Temple,  and  could  not  share  all  the  festivities  in  Hall. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN-  DA  YS.  105 

Service  in  the  Temple  church  over,  the  gentlemen  and 
students  repaired  to  the  Inner  Temple  Hall,  where  break- 
fast was  prepared — a  breakfast  which  from  time  imme- 
morial had  consisted  of  brawn,  mustard,  and  malmsey. 
But  the  event  of  the  day  was  the  dinner,  to  which,  as  usual, 
they  went  in  their  cloaks  and  hats,  but  carefully  laying 
aside  their  swords,  which  had  never  been  allowed  in  Hall 
since  a  day  long  ago  when  a  certain  Sir  John  Davis,  after- 
wards Lord  Chief  Justice  of  King's  Bench,  had  once  basti- 
nadoed a  man  at  dinner.  From  that  time  forward  no 
weapon  had  been  allowed  to  put  in  an  appearance,  save 
a  knife  or  dagger,  which  was  at  times  indispensable  in 
cutting  up  the  meat.  Hugo  had  never  before  dined  at  the 
Christmas  dinner,  and  with  Randolph  at  a  little  distance 
among  the  gentlemen  of  his  standing,  and  Denham  beside 
him,  ever  ready  with  jests  and  laughter,  the  time  passed 
merrily  enough.  The  whole  assembly  uncovered  while 
grace  was  sung,  and  had  barely  resumed  their  hats  and 
places  when  the  doors  were  thrown  wide,  and  there  entered 
a  procession  of  serving-men  and  singers  with  the  boar's 
head.  Then  the  vaulted  roof  rang  with  the  strains  of  the 
merry  old  carol,  evey  one  joining  lustily  in  the  chorus. 
The  words  had  been  sung  for  many  generations,  and  ran 
as  follows : 


The  bore's  heade  in  hande  bring  I, 
With  garlandes  gay  and  rosemary: 
I  pray  you  all  synge  merely, 
Qui  estis  in  convivio. 
CHORUS  t— Caput  apri  defero 

Reddens  laudes  Domino. 


"The  bore's  heade,  I  understande, 
Is  the  chief  servyce  in  this  land : 
Loke  wherever  it  be  f ande ; 
Servite  cum  cantico. 
CHORUS  :— Caput,  etc. 

"  Be  gladde,  Lordes,  both  more  and  lessc, 
For  this  hath  ordayned  our  stewarde 
To  chere  you  all  this  Christmasse, 

The  bore's  heade  with  mustarde. 
CHORUS  >— Caput,  etc." 

The  quaint  old  customs,  the  great  bunches  of  evergreens 
with  which  the  hall  was  decorated,  the  genial  good-fellow- 
ship, all  were  enjoyable  to  Hugo  ;  but  by  and  by,  when 
he  had  been  asked  again  and  again  to  sing,  and  had  done 


106  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

his  duty  by  the  assembly  ;  when  many  had  sung  them- 
selves  hoarse,  and  many  more  had  made  themselves  drunk, 
and  those  who  were  still  sober  enough  had  betaken  them- 
selves to  dicing,  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  butler,  whose 
box  received  a  certain  percentage  of  the  winnings, 
a«d  who  often  made  in  a  single  night  as  much  as  fifty 
pounds — then  he  began  to  weary  of  his  noisy  surround- 
ings. Never  till  now  had  he  passed  a  Christmas  without 
going  to  the  house  in  Norfolk  Street.  He  would  leave 
these  revellers,  and  see  how  matters  fared  with  his  friends  ; 
he  would  try  to  discover  the  reason  of  that  strange  and 
unaccountable  change  in  Mary. 

All  seemed  as  usual  at  the  Denham's.  Mary  wore  a 
festival  dress  of  amber  satin,  and  she  talked  gayly  enough 
to  the  aunts  and  cousins  who  always  spent  Christmas 
Day  with  them.  Yet,  whenever  she  turned  to  him,  he 
was  quite  conscious  that  she  was  making  an  effort  to 
talk ;  the  ease,  the  perfect  certainty  of  friendship  was 
gone.  It  saddened  him.  What  had  he  said  ?  What  had 
he  done  to  bring  about  this  change  ?  Wras  the  alteration 
in  him  or  in  Mary  ?  Was  the  fault  his  or  hers  ?  He 
would  fain  have  persuaded  himself  that  the  change  ex- 
isted only  in  his  fancy  ;  but  his  keen  perceptions  were  not 
to  be  thus  hoodwinked.  An  indefinable  "something" 
had  arisen  between  them  and  in  friendship  the  "inde- 
finable "  is  far  more  dangerous  than  the  actual  and  pal- 
pable barriers.  Barriers  may  be  surmounted ;  but  who  is 
to  surmount  that  which,  though  real  and  unmistakable, 
is  yet  incomprehensible  ?  His  friend  was  slipping  away 
from  him,  and  he  knew  it. 

Christmas  evening  was  not  a  favorable  opportunity  for 
any  sort  of  explanation.  He  watched  in  vain  for  a 
chance  of  even  a  few  minutes'  talk  with  Mary.  There  was 
snapdragon  for  the  benefit  of  the  little  cousins,  and  then 
Sir  William  said  they  could  not  spend  the  Christmas  with- 
out one  game  of  Hoodman  Blind,  and  thus,  amid  much 
laughter  and  mirth,  the  hours  slipped  by,  and,  save  Hugo 
and  Mary,  every  one  enjoyed  the  merry-making. 

Matters  went  on  in  this  way  for  some  weeks.  Never 
could  Hugo  find  Mary  alone,  and  never  could  he  get 
over  that  curious  feeling  of  division  between  them,  which 
made  meeting  far  more  of  a  pain  than  a  pleasure. 

At  length  came  an  opportunity,  which  in  a  sort  of  de« 
•pair  he  determined  to  seize.  It  was  the  2d  Febru 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  107 

ary,  and  there  was  to  be  a  masque  ball  at  Gray's  Inn.  The 
Denhams  were  personal  friends  of  Sir  Richard  Gips,  the 
Master  of  the  Revels,  and  Hugo  knew  that  Mary  was  sure 
to  be  there  ;  he  also  had  received  an  invitation,  and  surely 
the  ' '  vain  talk  of  the  Pelagians  "  would  afford  him  shelter 
sufficient  for  a  private  conversation. 

'  The  hall  at  Gray's  Inn,  though  not  so  large  as  the  Middle 
Temple  Hall,  was,  nevertheless,  a  capital  ball-room,  and 
its  carved  oak  roof  showed  to  advantage  in  the  soft  light 
of  the  myriad  candles  ranged  in  sconces  round  the  walls. 
Hugo  arrived  rather  late,  only  just  before  the  royal  party, 
indeed,  and  the  scene  was  picturesque  enough  to  divert 
him  from  his  anxiety  for  the  time.  The  blaze  of  lights,  the 
flashing  of  the  ladies'  diamonds,  the  wonderful  richness 
and  variety  of  color,  and  the  curious  effect  of  the  masks 
worn  by  every  one  present  pleased  him  greatly.  Almost 
before  he  had  taken  in  the  scene,  the  people  rose  at  the 
announcement  that  the  King  was  approaching,  and  im- 
mediately afterwards  Charles  entered  with  the  Queen,  who 
was  passionately  fond  of  dancing  though  she  danced  but 
ill,  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  York,  and  the  rest  of  the 
court.  All  wore  masks,  but  many  of  them  were  easily 
recognizable  to  Hugo. 

It  was  not  until  the  dancing  was  about  to  begin  that 
he  remembered  Mary.  His  friend  was  here  somewhere 
in  this  gay  crowd,  and  he  must  find  her,  spite  of  her 
disguise.  Perhaps  explanations  might  be  easier  when  the 
face  of  each  would  be  protected,  and  no  expression  visible 
save  in  the  eyes. 

But  how  to  find  her  ?  The  King  had  already  led  out  a 
lady  for  a  single  coran/o,  and  by  rights  Hugo  should  have 
been  respectfully  watching  his  sovereign.  He  cast  no 
single  glance,  however,  at  the  dancers,  but  sought  every- 
where with  eager  restless  eyes  for  the  dark-brown  curls 
and  the  slim  figure,  a  little  below  the  medium  height,  for 
which  alone  in  all  this  multitude  he  cared. 

"You  are  searching  for  some  one  ?  "  said  a  voice  at  his 
elbow,  a  sweet  voice,  in  which  there  lurked  innocent, 
girlish  laughter.  Two  bright  eyes  looked  out  from  behind 
the  mask,  smiling  at  him,  and  he  instantly  recognized  the 
little  Duchess  of  Grafton. 

He  had  not  expected  to  meet  her,  and  was  pleased,  for 
she  was  one  of  the  few  pure-minded  women  whom  he 
knew,  and  her  youth  and  her  romantic  story,'  together 


108  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

with  a  certain  sweet  discretion  very  rare  in  one  of  her 
age,  made  her  strangely  fascinating. 

"  May  I  have  the  pleasure  of  dancing  with  your 
grace  ?  "  he  said.  - 

"You  have  recognized  me  !  "  she  said,  laughing.  "  And 
yet  methinks  I  was  right  well  disguised.  Ay,  I  will  dance 
with  you,  and  you  can  pursue  your  search  in  the  mean- 
while. " 

"  I  was  looking  for  Mistress  Mary  Denham,"  said  Hugo. 
"But  it  is  not  easy  amid  a  host  of  maskers  to  discover 
even  a  friend  of  long  standing." 

"Yet  'tis  not  long  since  I  heard  you  sing  a  ditty  in 
which  over  far  greater  difficulties  you  maintained  '  Love 
would  find  out  a  way/"  said  the  little  Duchess. 

She  had  already  built  up  a  romance  for  these  two 
friends  of  hers,  and,  seeing  that  her  own  romance  had 
been  all  acted  out  in  the  days  of  her  childhood,  and  her 
fate  fixed  before  she  had  reached  her  teens,  her  innocent 
match-making  was  excusable  enough.  Hugo  thought  of 
Joyce — he  always  thought  of  her  when  singing  that  song 
— then,  recollecting  the  connection  of  the  Duchess's  words, 
he  colored  crimson,  and  was  thankful  that  he  wore  a 
mask. 

"Mistress  Denham  has  been  my  friend  every  since  our 
childhood,"  he  said,  quickly.  " But  friendship,  however 
keen,  however  true,  gives  not  that  power  of  which  the 
song  speaks." 

The  little  duchess  was  disappointed ;  she  perceived 
from  his  manner  that  he  was  assuredly  in  love, — but  not 
with  Mary. 

"You  men  have  not  so  nice  an  observation  as  we  of 
the  weaker  sex, "  she  said.  ' '  Now,  I  perceived  Mistress 
Mary  at  once." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Hugo,  quickly  ;   "is  she  near  ?  " 

"You  are  wanting,  as  I  said,  in  nice  observation,"  said 
the  little  Duchess,  who  could  tease  upon  occasion.  "  I 
recognized  her  at  once  by  her  little  feet ;  she  hath  the 
smallest  and  loveliest  in  the  room.  Now,  if  you  were  to 
watch,  to  exercise  your  powers  of  observation " 

She  looked  at  him  laughingly,  as  he  rapidly  scanned  the 
feet  of  the  dancers. 

"She  wears  a  dress  of  white  satin,  and  pearls  round 
her  neck,"  continued  the  little  duchess,  "  and  her  cavalier 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 


109 


She  broke  off,  for  Hugo,  with  a  start  of  surprise,  at 
length  recognized  Mary  Denham  in  the. lady  who  was  at 
that  moment  dancing  the  coranto  with  a  gentleman  mag- 
nificently arrayed  in  blue  satin  slashed  with  yellow,  whom 
he  had  discovered  to  be  his  old  school-fellow  Matthew 
Prior,  now  an  undergraduate  at  St.  John's  College,  Cam- 
bridge. 

His  mind  was  somewhat  preoccupied  when  his  turn 
came  and  he  had  to  lead  out  the  Duchess  of  Grafton,  but  as 
usual  he  danced  extremely  well,  better — at  least  one  per- 
son thought  so — than  any  one  else  in  the  hall.  Mary 
was  sitting  now  beside  her  aunt ;  she  watched  every  part 
of  the  complicated  dance  with  an  absorbed  interest,  ever 
following  with  her  eye  the  slight,  graceful  figure  in  crim- 
son velvet  laced  with  silver,  white  silk  hose  gartered  below 
the  knee  with  silver  braid,  and  shoes  in  which  there  glit- 
tered the  newly-introduced  silver  shoe-buckles. 

And  yet,  when  Hugo  drew  near,  that  curious  barrier 
made  itself  more  than  ever  felt,  they  were  no  longer  the 
familiar  friends  they  had  once  been.  She  was  neverthe- 
less glad  to  dance  with  him,  and  when,  by-and-by,  he  had 
found  at  length  that  opportunity  for  uninterrupted  talk  for 
tyhich  he  had  waited  so  long,  perhaps,  even  though  her 
heart  beat  painfully,  she  was  yet  glad  that  the  present 
state  of  things  had  been  to  him  unbearable.  She  knew 
quite  well  what  he  was  going  to  say  :  how  she  was  to 
answer  him  she  could  not  so  plainly  tell. 

' '  Mary,"  he  said,  his  voice  falling  very  sweetly  upon  her 
ear,  amid  all  the  uproar  of  general  conversation,  and  the 
twanging  and  scraping  of  lutes  and  fiddles.  "Mary, 
what  has  come  betwixt  us  of  late  ?  I  ever  deemed  our 
friendship  of  too  long  standing  to  admit  of  any  change 
save  that  of  growth." 

"Surely  it  must  change  as  we  grow  older,"  she  replied, 
in  as  matter-of-fact  a  voice  as  she  could  command.  "Not 
of  course  in  a  degree,  but  in  manner.  We  cannot  ever  be 
children." 

"  Must  age  stiffen  us— freeze  us  into  formality?  "  ques- 
tioned Hugo. 

"Nay,  I  said  not  so,"  replied  Mary,  smiling.  "When 
was  I  ever  stiff  or  formal  in  your  company  ?  " 

' '  Those  perchance  were  cold  words  to  describe  what  I 
mean.  And  yet  of  late  I  have  ever  been  aware  of  some 
change  in  you,  in  your  manner. " 


1 10  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

"  You  are  no  longer  the  Westminster  boy  with  whom  I 
used  to  play,  you.  are  a  man  of  the  world,  you  begin  to 
mix  much  in  society — how  then  should  you  find  all  as  it 
used  to  be  in  the  old  times  ?  We  have  both  of  us  left 
childhood  behind  us." 

"And  must  friendship  be  left  behind  too?"  he  ques- 
tioned. 

"  You  mistake  my  meaning,"  said  Mary.  "  I  mean  only 
that  your  changed  life,  your  fresh  interests,  make  you 
fancy  a  change  in  me." 

"Nay,"  he  said,  "the  change  is  not  in  my  fancy,  never 
will  you  persuade  me  of  that.  The  change  is  there,  and 
it  has  come  to  this,  that,  whereas  in  old  times  I  came  to 
Norfolk  Street,  knowing  I  should  find  there  all  I  had  learnt 
to  look  for,  now  I  come  there  in  dread,  or  in  an  expecta- 
tion which  is  ever  frustrated. " 

"  How  mean  you  ?  "  said  Mary,  falteringly.  Her  mask 
veiled  her  face  effectually,  but  something  of  agitation  be- 
trayed itself  in  her  voice. 

"  There  !  I  have  vexed  you  !  "  exclaimed  Hugo,  full  of 
self-reproach.  "  Do  not  for  one  moment  dream  that  the 
house  will  not  ever  be  a  home  to  me,  the  one  home  for 
me  in  all  London  !  but  yet  of  late  it  has  come  to  pass  that 
I  no  longer  can  go  there  feeling  sure  of  you  as  I  once  did. 
There  has  been  some  change  in  you,  though  you  deny  it 
never  so  much." 

"  Hugo  !  "  she  exclaimed,  impetuously,  "  I  have  treated 
you  ill.  And  you  are  quite  right,  there  has  been  some 
slight  change  in  my  manner.  I  tried  to  help  it,  but 
failed." 

"  What  have  I  done ? "  said  Hugo,  bewildered.  "Has 
any  slanderer  come  betwixt  us  with  some  idle  tale  ?  " 

"Nay,  there  has  been  no  slanderer,"  said  Mary,  smil- 
ing. "Think  you  that  I  would  credit  what  the  idle 
gossips  have  to  charge  you  with?  Come,  Hugo,  you 
have  in  good  truth  lost  all  trust  in  me  if  you  can  think 
that." 

"But  why,  then,  this  change? "  said  Hugo,  anxiously. 

"It  was  my  own  foolish  fault,"  said  Mary,  speaking 
quickly,  forcibly,  and  with  the  manner  of  one  who  de- 
sires above  all  things  to  make  matters  clear.  "I  thought 
you  would  no  longer  have  need  of  me ;  I  thought,  after 
that  last  talk  we  had  on  the  night  of  the  play,  that  sisters 
*— I  had  been  a  sort  of  sister  to  you — were  no  longe* 


/If  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  Ill 

needed  when  brides  are  found.  What  should  you  want 
with  friends  when  you  are  in  love,  you  foolish  boy  ?  " 

In  truth,  had  Hugo  not  been  in  love,  he  might  have 
noticed  that  the  little  laugh  which  ended  this  confession 
was  not  altogether  a  natural  one.  But  he  was  desperately 
in  love,  and  he  was  but  nineteen  ;  moreover,  the  Duchess 
of  Grafton's  accusation  had  been  one  of  the  true  words 
spoken  in  jest — he  was  not  by  nature  observant. 

"  How  could  you  think  that  1  "  he  exclaimed.  "  It  is 
the  very  reason  that  makes  me  need  you  more  than  ever. 
That  day  you  cheered  me  and  comforted  me — made  it 
seem  possible  that  I  might  at  least  see  Mistress  Wharncliffe 
once  again.  But  how  can  even  that  hope  satisfy  me,  if 
you  turn  from  me  ?  Do  without  you,  forsooth  1 " 

Mary's  fingers  tightened  upon  the  handle  of  her  fan ; 
for  a  minute  she  was  quite  silent,  and  very  still. 

"  You  will  not  condemn  me  to  aught  so  miserable," 
continued  Hugo,  pleadingly.  ' '  You  will  no  longer  dream 
that  I  can  spare  my  best  friend.  What  do  you  imagine 
my  life  would  have  been  had  it  not  been  for  you  !  " 

''By  your  own  confession  I  have  rendered  you  miser- 
able these  two  months  !  "  said  Mary,  with  a  very  tremulous 
smile.  "But,  Hugo,  you  shall  never  again  feel  that 
aught  has  come  betwixt  us.  I  will  ever  believe  that  you 
still  have  need  of  a  sister,  and  you  shall  come  to  our  house 
when  you  will,  and  shall  learn  once  more  to  feel  sure  of 
me.  Are  you  satisfied  ?  " 

Of  course  he  was  satisfied.  What  more  could  he  have 
desired?  And  she  herself  ?  Well,  with  her,  matters  must 
of  course  be  very  different.  His  perfect  happiness  in- 
volved, though  he  little  thought  it,  her  loss.  But,  fer- 
vently wishing  his  happiness,  she  accepted  patiently  and 
contentedly  the  part  assigned  her. 

Even  at  that  very  time,  when  Hugo  led  her  down  the 
hall  to  take  her  place  in  the  country-dance  which  was  just 
beginning,  she  was  not  exactly  unhappy.  He  needed 
her  still,  and,  moreover,  she  knew  now,  what  she  had 
never  before  even  guessed,  that  she  had  been  a  power 
and  an  influence  in  his  life.  That  night,  in  the  gay  throng 
gathered  in  Gray's  Inn  Hall,  there  were  many  who  bore 
a  heavier  heart  and  a  less  innocent  conscience  than 
Mistress  Mary  Denham. 


112  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 


CHAPTER  X. 

PENSHURST. 

Detestable  bribes  !  worse  than  the  oaths  now  in  fashion  in  this  mer 
cenary  court.  I  mean  to  owe  neither  my  life  nor  my  liberty  to  such 
means.  When  the  innocence  of  my  actions  will  not  protect  me,  I  will 
stay  away  till  the  storm  be  overpast  .  .  .  .  I  must  live  by  just  means, 
or  serve  to  just  ends,  or  not  at  all.  ALGERNON  SYDNEY. 

ONE  day,  towards  the  end  of  April,  Hugo  happened  to 
meet  Colonel  Sydney  in  the  Park. 

"  You  are  the  very  man  I  wanted  !  "  exclaimed  the  Re- 
publican. "Look  you,  on  the  morrow  I  go  down  to 
Penshurst  for  a  fortnight's  rest  and  change.  Come  with 
me  ;  it  would  do  you  good." 

"  There  is  nothing  I  should  so  much  like  !  "  said  Hugo, 
his  heart  beating  high  with  happiness  at  the  prospect. 
"And  my  brother  will  consent  to  it,  I  will  assuredly  come 
sir. " 

"I  had  forgot  your  guardian,"  said  Sydney.  "But  get 
his  leave  if  you  can,  for  I  would  fain  have  you  with  me  ; 
and  truly  he  cannot  care  so  much  as  you  think  for  your 
making  your  way  at  court,  else  he  would  not  have  per- 
mitted you  to  make  my  acquaintance." 

As  he  spoke,  he  glanced  rather  scornfully  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  water,  where  the  King  was  feeding  his  favorite 
ducks  ;  then,  his  face  softening  again,  he  nodded  kindly 
to  his  young  follower,  and  passed  on. 

Much  to  Hugo's  surprise,  Randolph  gave  a  ready  con- 
sent to  his  request,  and  the  next  morning  found  him 
riding  into  Kent  by  Sydney's  side,  in  the  seventh  heaven 
of  happiness. 

How  often  in  after-days  he  lived  over  again  that 
memorable  visit — and  how  little  he  thought  at  the  time 
that  the  calm  enjoyment  of  those  country  days,  the  rare 
delight  of  close  intercourse  with  that  great  mind,  were  to 
fit  and  prepare  him  for  meeting  a  sea  of  trouble. 

It  was  a  beautiful  spring  afternoon  when  they  dis- 
mounted at  the  great  doorway  of  Penshurst  Place.  Lord 
Leicester  was  at  his  London  house,  and  Hugo  was  by  no 
means  sorry  to  hear  of  his  absence,  for  he  knew  well  that 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  113 

the  two  brothers  were  not  on  good  terms  with  each  other, 
and  naturally  he  was  glad  to  have  his  friend  and  master 
to  himself. 

They  had  dined  on  the  road,  but  Sydney  ordered  sup- 
per to  be  served  at  an  early  hour  in  the  picture-gallery  ; 
then,  when  they  had  changed  their  dusty  travelling- 
dresses,  he  took  Hugo  round  the  beautiful  old  house. 

"You  must  learn  your  way  about,"  he  said,  with  a 
smile.  "'  Tis  not  so  hard  as  you  might  think  to  lose  your 
way  in  this  rambling  old  mansion." 

"  I  can  well  imagine  missing  the  way,"  said  Hugo,  de- 
lighting in  the  beautiful  rooms  as  only  a  poet  can.  "I 
suppose  you,  sir,  know  it  all  by  heart." 

"  Ay,"  he  said,  with  a  sad  smile,  "I  could  walk  it  blind- 
fold— every  inch  of  the  house  and  grounds  is  graven  on 
my  heart, — and  often  in  exile  have  I  roamed  in  imagina- 
tion through  these  rooms,  and  grown  sick  for  another 
sight  of  the  old  home.  What  games  of  All-hid  we  used  to 
have !  The  place  wants  children  now,  it  feels  bare  and 
cold.  Why,  this  hall  where  we  now  stand — I  can  remem- 
ber it  decked  out  with  greenery  for  the  Christmas  feast ! 
We  all  feasted  together  that  one  day  of  the  year,  and  after 
the  good  old  custom,  the  retainers  at  yonder  side  tables, 
and  my  father  and  mother  and  the  guests  at  the  table  on 
yonder  dais,  with  such  of  us  brats  as  could  behave  our- 
selves fitly.  Ah,  well !  Ah,  well  !  'tis  like  enough  that 
fifty  years  should  bring  changes  !  My  father  and  mother 
dead — Henry  dead — Philip  estranged  from  me — Robert  a 
courtier  and  a  rake — pretty  Dorothy  the  beauty  of  bygone 
days — Isabella  ungrateful  and  cold,  though  I  did  my  best 
for  her." 

He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  Hugo's  presence,  and  to 
be  thinking  aloud.  Presently  he  recollected  himself. 

"'Tis  a  fine  old  hall,  is  it  not?  "  he  said,  looking  lov- 
ingly round  the  white  walls  with  their  groups  of  armor. 
"Yonder,  in  that  black  gallery,  the  minstrels  played  on 
high  days  and  holidays,  and  through  those  archways 
beneath  I  can  well  remember  seeing  the  mummers  file  in 
on  a  winter's  night.  'Twas  here  too  that  in  Common- 
wealth days  we  acted  'Coriolanus,'  which  same  acting 
made  no  little  stir,  and  was  even  construed  into  a  hit  at 
the  Protector." 

They  left  the  hall,  and  Sydney  led  the  way  up  a  wind- 
ing stone  staircase  and  into  a  large  wainscotted  room, 


U4  IN  THE  GOLDEtf  DA  YS. 

where  he  paused  to  show  Hugo  a  picture  of  his  ancestor, 
Sir  Philip  Sydney. 

"Oh,  is  that  Sir  Philip  ?  "  said  Hugo,  eagerly.  "  I  have 
often  wondered  what  the  face  could  have  been  on  which 
Roydon  bestowed  such  high  praise ; "  and  he  quoted  th« 
well-known  lines  beginning, 

"  A  sweet,  attractive  kind  of  grace." 

Sydney,  watching  him,  thought  the  words  would  have 
been  quite  as  appropriate  to  the  speaker,  but  he  only 
said, 

"Yes,  that  is  Philip  Sydney.  He  was  always  a  great 
hero  with  me  as  a  boy.  I  remember  coveting  my  brother's 
name,  and  vexing  myself  that  they  had  dubbed  me  with 
so  unwieldy  a  prefix  as  Algernon." 

Hugo  turned  from  the  young,  sweet,  intellectual  face  of 
the  ancestor  to  another  picture  which  hung  near  the  hearth. 
He  recognized  it  instantly — there  was  no  mistaking  the 
auburn  coloring,  the  sad  eyes,  the  grave,  austere  face  of 
the  patriot  upon  which,  even  then,  though  the  picture  had 
been  taken  many  years  ago,  sorrow  had  set  her  seal. 

"This  face  for  me!"  he  exclaimed,  involuntarily. 
"  Tis  worth  fifty  Sir  Philip's! ' 

"Shall  I  tell  you  why  you  think  so!"  said  Sydney, 
while  for  the  moment  something  of  the  sweet  attractive 
look  of  his  ancestor  dawned  in  his  usually  grave  eyes. 
"It  is  because  we  naturally  admire  those  who  are  our 
opposites.  No,  you  must  not  depreciate  my  hero  for  the 
sake  of  crying  up  your  very  faulty  teacher.  Philip  Syd- 
ney had  a  happy  lot ;  he  was  universally  beloved,  he 
died  a  happy  death,  and  his  generous  thought  for  another 
has  set  a  high  example  to  all  succeeding  generations. 
What  more  could  a  man  wish  for?  This  room  we  are 
coming  to  was  furnished  for  Queen  Elizabeth ;  but  we 
will  not  linger  now,  but  come  to  the  gallery,  where  I 
have  ordered  a  fire — the  evenings  feel  chilly  to  me  after 
my  long  stay  in  Southern  France." 

The  gallery  which  they  now  entered  was  a  noble  room, 
and  one  which  Sydney  preferred  to  any  other  in  the 
house.  Like  every  student,  he  loved  pacing  to  and  fro, 
he  loved  air  and  light  and  space.  Ducasse  had  arranged 
his  books  and  papers  for  him  on  a  table  near  the  great 
window,  while  a  second  table  near  the  hearth  was  pre- 
pared for  supper.  Mellow  sunset  light  filled  the  whole 


IN  THR  GOLDEN  DAYS.  115 

place,  gilding  the  polished  floor  and  the  wainscotted  walls, 
lighting  up  the  portraits  and  the  somewhat  stiff  array  of 
high-backed  chairs  and  carved  tables  laden  with  great 
china  vases.  Hugo  looked  down  the  long  vista,  and 
thought  he  could  be  very  happy  here ;  but  close  to  the 
door  a  picture  of  three  children  brought  him  to  a  pause. 

Sydney  smiled. 

"  You  will  not  so  easily  recognize  this,  I  think." 

But  even  here  Hugo  was  not  at  fault.  Two  of  the  boys 
were  just  the  conventional  painted  children  of  bygone 
times,  but  the  one  to  the  right  had  something  vigorous 
and  real  about  his  whole  attitude.  He  was  a  little  red- 
haired  fellow,  holding  a  hound  in  a  leash  with  one  hand, 
and  with  the  other  grasping  a  staff.  There  was,  even  in 
his  childish  face,  a  trace  of  the  strength,  the  determina- 
tion, the  dauntless  spirit  of  the  man. 

Sydney  passed  on  with  a  sigh.  Perhaps  he  thought  of 
the  weary  years  of  sorrow  and  disappointment  which  had 
been  in  store  for  the  child  ;  perhaps  he  remembered  the 
unfulfilled  hopes  of  his  youth. 

They  sat  down  by  the  great  window  at  the  far  end  of 
the  apartment,  and  looked  out  into  the  dewy  garden, 
with  its  fair  lawns  and  well-kept  walks. 

"You  are  satisfied  with  your  life?"  asked  Sydney, 
after  a  long  pause.  "  You  are  happy?  " 

"  Quite  satisfied,"  said  Hugo,  quickly.  "  Quite  happy. 
It  has  been  a  wonderful  year  for  me. " 

Sydney  seemed  about  to  put  some  other  question,  but 
he  checked  himself.  Was  it  not  natural  that  he  should  be 
satisfied — as  yet  ?  Life  had  brought  him  many  fair  things 
during  the  last  few  months,  and  he  had  not  yet  realized 
the  hollowness  of  the  world's  friendship — he  lived  in  a 
world  of  intrigue  without  being  aware  of  it — he  judged 
others  by  himself.  The  awakening  must  come  ere  long  ; 
but  Sydney  would  not  hasten  it,  he  would  only  prepare 
his  young  follower,  as  far  as  in  him  lay,  to  face  the  com- 
ing storm. 

And  so  a  peaceful  week  passed  by.  They  read  together, 
talked  together,  walked  together.  Sydney  was  busy 
correcting  a  manuscript  written  some  years  previously. 
He  discussed  this  with  Hugo,  let  him  read  it  through 
and  help  in  searching  for  various  references. 

One  morning  the  weather  was  so  mild  that  they  took 
their  books  out  into  the  park. 


ufi  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS, 

It  was  the  first  of  May,  and  the  golden  sunshine  made 
the  glassy  slopes  of  that  lovely  place  look  like  a  little 
paradise.  The  giant  beech- trees  were  in  all  the  glory  of 
the  early  spring  green,  while  the  oaks  gave  a  touch  of 
sombre  russet  to  the  landscape,  with  here  and  there  a  rosy 
tinge  where  the  buds  were  beginni  g  to  unfold  them- 
selves. All  was  very  still ;  nothing  was  to  be  heard,  save 
the  splashing  of  the  waterfowl  in  the  lake,  the  singing  of 
the  birds,  the  soft  movements  of  the  deer  browsing  among 
the  brake-fern,  and  now  and  then  faint  strains  of  very 
distant  music,  just  sufficient  to  remind  the  two  who  were 
revelling  in  that  peaceful  quiet  that  somewhere  the 
country-folk  were  dancing  round  the  village  maypole, 
and  paying  homage  to  some  pretty  May  queen. 

Hugo  was  stretched  at  full  length  on  the  velvety  turf 
reading  the  last  pages  of  the  manuscript  of  those  Dis- 
courses on  Government,  of  which  later  on  so  much  was  to 
be  heard. 

Sydney  was  leaning  back  against  the  trunk  of  the  tree 
known  as  Sir  Philip  Sydney's  oak,  which  grew  not  far  from 
the  lake,  and  he  had  in  his  hand  a  small  volume  of  Plato. 
He  had  read  but  little,  however,  being  much  more  in- 
clined to  watch  the  face  of  the  young  man  beside  him 
and  mark  his  progress  through  the  manuscript.  Hugo 
was  fast  approaching  the  end,  and  trr  writer  wondered  a 
little  how  the  work  on  which  he  had  spent  s<  many  years 
of  thought,  so  much  arduous  labor  woula  affect  him. 
The  thought  came  to  him,  as  it  must  have  come  to  many, 
that  this  work  of  his  which  had  cost  him  much,  would,  if 
read  by  the  many  at  all,  be  read  cursorily,  would  perchance 
be  the  interest  of  a  day  or  the  occupation  of  a  few  idle 
moments,  and  then  would  be  tossed  aside  and  forgotten. 
The  writer  stands  in  the  same  position  to  the  creations  of 
his  brain  as  the  parent  to  the  child.  He  alone  can  quite 
understand  them,  because  he  alone  has  lived  ever  with 
them,  and  he  alone  knows  all  they  have  cost.  He  won- 
dered how  this  work  of  his  would  strike  Hugo  Wharn- 
cliffe,  how  far  he  would  gather  from  his  work  what  he 
had  intended  to  be  gathered.  For,  after  all,  words  are 
but  clumsy  means  of  communicating  thought,  and,  more- 
over, most  readers  read  themselves  and  their  prejudices 
into  every  book  they  handle. 

This  quiet  week  at  Penshurst  had  done  much — far  more 
than  Sydney  knew — towards  developing  within  his  guest 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  117 

fte  love  of  country,  the  love  of  freedom,  above  all,  the 
Jove  of  justice,  which  had  hitherto  lain  somewhat  dormant 
in  his  heart.  The  rigid  discipline  of  Dr.  Busby,  the  tyr- 
anny  of  Randolph,  combined  with  the  reverential  devo- 
tion which  was  ingrained  in  his  nature,  had  not  been 
favorable  to  the  growth  of  these  virtues.  Nor  would  they 
ever  have  sprung  into  life  in  Hugo's  heart  had  he  not  seen 
them  embodied  in  a  man  whom  instinctively  he  wor- 
shipped. He  was  not  as  yet  capable  of  perceiving  the  true 
and  beautiful  in  abstract ;  he  saw  them  only,  as  perhaps 
most  of  us  see  them,  when  embodied  in  human  beings, 
either  immortalized  in  history  or  actually  living.  But 
under  Sydney's  guidance  he  was  growing  rapidly,  and  to 
a  keen  observer  nothing  is  more  fascinating  than  to  mark 
this  sort  of  growth.  In  all  the  anxieties,  in  all  the  nation- 
al griefs  of  that  time,  Sydney  was  able  to  interest  himself 
keenly  in  the  frequent  contact  with  a  young,  fresh,  vigor- 
ous mind  feeling  its  way  into  greater  things.  Hugo's  de- 
votion was  very  sweet  to  him,  moreover,  for  he  was  at 
that  time  strangely  friendless,  and  everywhere  regarded 
as  one  with  whom  it  would  be  impolitic  to  cultivate  a 
close  acquaintance. 

Perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  this  when  he  spoke  next  to 
Hugo.  The  young  man  had  turned  the  last  leaf  of  the 
manuscript,  had  read  the  last  words  of  the  notable  Dis- 
courses, and  was  in  truth  almost  burdened  by  the  feeling 
that  beside  him  stood  the  writer,  this  man  who  had  studied 
the  theory  of  government  more  deeply  than  any  man  of 
that  age, 

"So  you  have  ended  your  task,"  said  Sydney  with  a 
emile.  "  How  now,  are  you  not  somewhat  taken  aback 
to  find  yourself  the  guest  of  one  who  writes  what  some 
would  account  treason  ?  Bethink  yourself !  Were  it  not 
better  to  withdraw  from  the  acquaintance  of  such  an  one  ?" 

"Nay,  sir,"  said  Hugo,  with  a  gesture  of  eager  protest, 
"  say  not  such  words  even  in  jest" 

"Tis  true,"  said  Sydney,  "that  so  coldly  prudent  a 
thought  would  be  slow  to  rise  in  your  generous  heart 
But  in  truth,  Hugo,  I  must  warn  you  that  there  is  verily 
gome  risk  to  you  in  being  accounted  my  friend." 

"  If  so,  then  I  gladly  take  the  risk,"  said  Hugo,  quickly. 
"And,  should  it  indeed  ever  be  that  the  giving  is  not 
wholly  on  your  side,  then  I  shall  be  right  happy. " 

The  elder  man  looked  sadly,  and  yet  with  much  tender* 


Ilg  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

ness,  at  the  eager  face  of  the  youth,  who  spoke  so  warmly. 
so  promptly,  words  which  would  involve  so  much. 

"I  see  no  cause  for  immediate  anxiety,"  he  said. 
"But  the  Whig  party  is  now  in  grave  peril.  Monmouth's 
cause  not  yet  ripe,  and  even  the  city  won  over  by  foul 
means  to  the  interests  of  the  Court  For  the  time  I  see 
naught  that  can  be  done  save  to  keep  quiet,  and  to  pre- 
pare the  people  for  the  next  election,  that  they  may  per- 
ceive their  rights  and  their  duties.  Yet  even  now,  while  the 
nation  groans  under  the  yoke  of  the  Stuarts,  there  is  much 
servile  adulation  of  the  king.  Heard  you  the  song  which 
was  sung  not  long  since  at  the  Lord  Mayor's  banquet? 
A  description  of  His  Majesty,  forsooth  ! 

" '  In  whom  all  the  virtues  are  fitly  combined, 

Whom  God  as  a  pattern  hath  sent  to  mankind. '" 

The  words  were  such  a  grotesque  mockery  that  Hugo 
could  not  restrain  a  laugh. 

"I  bear  no  ill-will  to  His  Majesty,  "he  said,  after  a 
pause.  "  But  yet  thi«  fawn  ing  servility  doth  disgust  one." 

"Ay,"  said  Sydney.  "And  can  you  wonder,  then, 
that  before  me  is  ever  a  vision  of  the  time  when  the  foul 
flattery,  the  arrogant  pride  of  such  courts  shall  be  forever 
done  away  ?  Not  long  since  I  had  with  me  in  this  very 
place  the  laws  which  my  friend  Penn  framed  in  concert 
with  myself  for  his  new  province,  his  fair  Utopia  over 
the  seas.  But  i'  faith  it  was  ofttimes  sad  work  to  copy 
fair  those  laws  for  a  foreign  land,  while  my  own  land 
was  in  slavery." 

"Tell  me,  sir,"  said  Hugo,  "what  were  the  chiefest 
improvements  devised  in  those  laws?  How  did  they 
differ  from  our  own  ?  " 

"Briefly  I  will  sketch  them  to  you,"  said  Sydney. 
"They  are  to  have  two  legislative  chambers,  both  of  them 
elected  by  universal  suffrage.  They  are  to  have  annual 
parliaments,  and  no  property  qualification  for  members. 
They  are  to  have  vote  by  ballot,  perfect  freedom  in  all 
religious  matters,  uni  -rsal  education,  abolition  of  the 
death  penalty  for  all  crimes  save  murder  and  treason. 
Idleness  is  to  be  punished  as  a  vice,  prisons  are  to  be 
used  as  houses  of  education  and  industry  in  the  hope  of 
raising  the  inmates,  instead  of  as  now  hopelessly  degrad- 
ing them,  and  last,  but  not  least,  though  your  profession 
may  not  bless  us,  fees  of  law  are  to  be  fixed  at  alow  rate, 
and  to  be  hung  up  in  all  courts  of  justice." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 


1 19 


"  Twill  verily  be  a  Utopia  !  "  exclaimed  Hugo,  amazed 
It  the  novelty  and  the  daring  character  of  the  reforms,  as 
indeed  he  might  well  be,  seeing  that  Penn  and  Sydney 
were  two  hundred  years  at  least  in  advance  of  their  time, 
and  propounded  schemes  which  were  none  of  them 
adopted  in  England  till  the  nineteenth  century,  and  for 
want  of  some  of  which  the  nation  yet  suffers. 

"That  will  be  the  basis  of  the  constitution,  and  the 
people  themselves  will  have  the  power  of  advancing 
upon  that  basis.  The  power  is  in  their  hands.  Utopia, 
you  think  !  "  he  smiled  a  little.  "  Well,  perhaps — or  we 
will  say  a  free  land,  which  is  the  same  thing  in  other 
words." 

Hugo  was  silent  for  some  minutes ;  the  loveliness  of 
the  surroundings,  the  glad  spring-time,  the  sweet  sights  and 
sweet  sounds  filled  his  heart  with  a  strange  pain.  Like 
the  hectic  beauty  of  one  dying  of  consumption,  fair  Nature 
seemed  but  the  outer  veil  of  a  hideous  disease  ;  for,  alas  1 
alas  !  in  this  land,  this  very  land  where  the  grass  was  so 
green,  the  landscape  so  fair,  the  people  were  daily  falling 
more  and  more  under  the  tyrannical  power  of  a  monarch 
who  was  great  in  nothing  but  double-dealing,  and  had  not 
even  the  courage  of  his  opinions,  like  the  far  less  popular 
Duke  of  York.  Faintly  he  began  to  perceive  the  evils  of 
the  present,  and  yet  it  was  well-nigh  impossible  for  one 
brought  up  as  he  had  been  altogether  to  agree  with  Syd- 
ney's views.  He  was  not  yet  capable  of  grasping  them 
in  their  entirety,  while,  as  to  entering  into  any  sort  of  ac- 
tion which  would  be  contrary  to  Randolph's  liking,  the 
thought  was  torture  to  him.  Luckily  there  was  as  yet 
no  question  as  to  action  ;  as  yet  it  was  possible  to  stand 
aloof  and  study  each  side. 

Even  as  he  mused,  he  was  watching  a  figure  which  had 
just  emerged  from  behind  the  clump  of  trees  between  the 
oak  and  Lancup  Well.  It  proved  to  be  Ducasse  bearing 
a  letter,  and  the  letter  was  for  Hugo.  Somehow,  as  he 
opened  it,  a  cloud  seemed  to  fall  upon  the  day,  and  a  chill 
foreboding  filled  his  heart. 

It  was  from  Randolph,  and  consisted  of  a  peremptory 
command  to  return  to  London  that  very  day.  He  had 
need  of  him. 

He  handed  the  square  sheet  to  Sydney  without  a  word, 
but  it  was  not  difficult  to  see  that  the  summons  was  most 
unwelcome.  Moreover,  he  was  now  old  enough  to  feel 


120  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  Y3. 

the  injustice  of  sending  him  no  word  of  explanation,  oi 
requiring  him  to  forego  what  he  so  greatly  prized,  while 
giving  no  reason  whatever. 

"  You  must  in  truth  go  ?  "  questioned  Sydney. 

"Ay,  sir,  and  without  delay,"  he  replied. 

Sydney  was  silent  for  a  minute.  He  in  his  young  days 
had  suffered  much  from  the  undue  harshness  of  his  father's 
treatment,  and  he  felt  sorry  for  this  youth,  who  was  fai 
less  capable  then  he  had  been  of  endurance.  Plucking  a 
leaf  from  the  oak-tree  to  mark  his  place  in  his  book,  he 
turned  to  Hugo. 

"  My  son,  it  has  long  been  in  my  mind  to  say  one  thing 
to  you.  We  have  learnt  to  know  each  other,  and  I  have 
not  had  you  thus  closely  with  me  these  days  without  not- 
ing that  in  you  which  assures  me  that  you  will  in  many 
matters  have  to  go  through  life  more  or  less  as  a  solitary. 
I,  too,  had  to  learn  that  lesson  early  in  life.  The  time 
will  assuredly  come  when  you  will  find  yourself  differing 
from  your  brother, — prepare  yourself  for  that  time,  that 
when  it  comes  you  may  be  strong  to  meet  it." 

Hugo  winced.  The  mere  mention  of  a  difference  with 
Randolph  was  keenly  painful  to  him. 

"Yes,"  said  Sydney,  marking  his  expression,  "'tis  not 
always  those  who  give  their  lives  for  their  country  who 
serve  her  at  greatest  cost ;  many  things  are  more  to  be 
apprehended  than  a  hatchet.  I  mind  me  long  years  ago 
using  those  very  words  to  my  father  when  the  sense  of  his 
displeasure  and  continued  neglect  weighed  far  more  with 
me  than  the  risk  of  secret  assassination.  You  are  in  some 
ways  more  fit  to  stand  alone  than  I  was." 

"  More  fit,  sir !  "  echoed  Hugo,  amazed 

"Ay,  though  you  look  surprised,  'tis  nathless  true," 
said  Sydney,  with  a  smile.  ' '  For  the  best  part  of  your 
life  has  been  lived  with  books  rather  than  with  men,  like 
my  friend  Pallavicini,  and  therefore  loneliness  will  press 
on  you  the  less  heavily.  It  was  not  till  I  was  nigh  upon 
forty  that  I  learnt  to  have  my  conversation  with  birds, 
trees,  and  books,  and  to  suffice  unto  myself." 

' '  Was  that  during  your  stay  in  Italy,  sir  ?  " 

"Yes,  during  a  summer  I  spent  at  Frascati.  There  I 
fell  with  some  eagerness  to  reading,  and  found  so  much 
satisfaction  in  it  that  though  I  every  morning  saw  the  sun 
rise,  yet  I  never  went  abroad  till  six  or  seven  of  the  clock 
at  night  Now  this  hermit  life  is  by  nature  tasteful  to 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  Iff 

you,  and  therefore  you  may  perchance  mind  solitude  and 
enforced  inaction  less  than  I  have  done." 

They  walked  slowly  towards  the  house  while  talking, 
for  Hugo  was  too  promptly  obedient  to  neglect  even  for 
an  instant  Randolph's  peremptory  command.  He  would 
not  consent  to  wait  even  for  the  one  o'clock  dinner,  but 
begged  that  his  horse  might  at  once  be  saddled.  Never- 
theless, there  was  some  little  delay,  for  which  in  his  heart 
he  blessed  the  grooms,  and  in  the  meantime  Sydney  paced 
to  and  fro  with  him  in  the  avenue,  which  was  called  Sac- 
charissa's  Walk,  in  memory  of  Sydney's  beautiful  sister 
Dorothy,  immortalized  by  Waller  under  that  name.  But 
Hugo  bestowed  no  thought  upon  the  daily  walks  which 
the  "  matchless  dame"  had  been  in  the  habit  of  taking  in 
that  stately  aisle  ;  he  could  think  only  of  the  grave,  strong, 
thoughtful  face  beside  him,  grave  even  to  sternness,  and 
yet  to  him  never  lacking  in  tender  kindliness.  Through 
the  fresh  green  of  the  trees  there  flickered  the  golden  May 
sunshine,  and  the  birds  sang  with  a  joyous  recklessness 
which  was  just  now  ill  in  accord  with  the  heaviness  of 
Hugo's  heart  He  could  not  have  put  his  dread  into 
words,  but  it  was  there,  a  deadly  oppression,  weighing 
down  his  heart  like  lead.  He  put  into  words  the  more 
definite  fear  which  Sydney's  speech  by  Lancup  Well  had 
suggested  to  him. 

" Sir,"  he  said,  "I  trust  I  am  no  coward,  but  yet  I  own 
that  the  thought  of  a  difference  with  my  brother  doth 
trouble  me.  I  fear  that  naught  could  make  me  insensible 
to  it." 

"He  that  is  not  sensible  of  such  things  must  be  an 
angel  or  a  beast,"  said  Sydney.  "And  I  can  well  deem 
that  to  you  the  prospect  of  any  difference  is  a  species  of 
torture.  For  that  very  reason  I  spoke  to  you.  What  if 
it  be  torture  ?  dread  it  not !  what  if  it  cripple  your  life, 
as  mine  has  been  crippled  ?  still,  dread  it  not !  Believe 
me,  lad,  there  is  naught  in  this  world  to  be  dreaded  save 
sin  and  shame." 

Into  Hugo's  mind  there  flashed  the  recollection  of  that 
stealthy  visit  to  Mondisfield  Hall.  Never  once  during 
the  peaceful  visit  to  Penshurst  had  his  skeleton  stalked 
forth  from  its  cupboard,  but  now  it  made  itself  hatefully 
apparent,  walking  with  him  through  that  beautiful  avenue, 
choking  him  with  its  deadly  power. 

"What  can  one  do  when  duties  seem  to  clash?"  he 


m  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  KS 

said.  "  Ah,  sir,  they  must  oft  have  done  so  in  your  lifet 
perchance  even  now  they  may  do  so.  Tell  me — in  suck 
a  case,  what  do  you  do  ?  " 

In  his  tone  was  all  the  suppressed  eagerness,  the  sub- 
dued emotion  of  one  who,  in  sore  distress,  turns  to  a 
stronger,  older,  wiser  nature,  with  the  instinct  that  in  age 
and  experience  the  true  counsellors  are  to  be  found. 

Sydney  walked  for  a  few  paces  in  silence.  When  he 
replied,  he  looked  not  at  Hugo,  but  far  out  beyond  the 
trees,  where  shadows  and  flickering  gleams  of  sunlight 
broadened  into  one  wide  expanse  of  uninterrupted  bright- 
ness. 

"  I  walk  in  the  light  God  hath  given  me,"  he  said  with 
a  grave  simplicity.  "If  it  be  dim  or  uncertain  I  must 
bear  the  penalty  of  my  errors." 

Before  anything  more  had  passed,  a  servant  approached 
to  tell  him  that  the  horse  was  ready.  Ducasse  had  col- 
lected Hugo's  possessions  and  there  was  no  excuse  for 
further  delay. 

"Take  this  little  volume  as  a  remembrance  of  your 
visit,"  said  Sydney,  placing  in  his  hand  the  book  he  had 
been  reading  beneath  the  oak-tree ;  it  was  the  "Republic" 
of  Plato. 

Feeling  like  one  in  a  dream,  Hugo  uttered  thanks  and 
farewells,  grasping  Sydney's  hand,  then  mounted  his  chest- 
nut, and  gathering  up  the  reins,  started  on  his  journey. 
What  was  this  weight  at  his  heart  ?  Why  did  this  awful 
foreboding  overcome  him  ?  The  oppression  grew  intoler- 
able, and  with  a  sudden  impulse  he  turned  back  to  the 
great  doorway,  where  Sydney  stood  alone,  the  servant 
having  returned  to  the  house. 

"Has  Ducasse  forgotten  aught?"  questioned  Sydney, 
as  the  young  man  dismounted. 

"  Naught,  sir,"  said  Hugo  once  again  grasping  his  hand. 
"  Pardon  me,  and  think  me  not  in  very  truth  a  coward, 
but  there  is  over  me  a  sense  of  coming  trouble,  and  I 
cannot  shake  it  from  me." 

"You  are  over  finely  strung  for  this  hard  world,"  said 
Sydney.  "Nathless  all  the  more  for  that  very  reason  it 
behoves  you  to  dread  nothing.  'Sanctus  amor  patrise 
dat  animum.'  Forget  not  our  motto.  We  shall  meet 
again  in  London.  Farewell,  my  son." 

And  therewith  the  strong  hand  rested  on  his  shoulder 
for  a  minute,  and  in  silence — a  silence  which  he  dared  noi' 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  123 

trust  himself  to  break — he  bade  a  last  farewell  to  Algernon 
Sydney. 

In  the  dreary  numbness  of  feeling  which  fell  upon  him 
as  once  more  he  resumed  his  way,  he  raised  himself  in 
his  stirrups  and  turned  for  a  last  glance  at  the  place.  One 
more  look  at  that  noble  front,  at  those  battlemented  towers ; 
one  more  look  at  the  great  doorway  still  visible  between 
the  beech-trees ;  one  more  look  at  the  figure  in  the  plain 
brown  doublet  and  broad-brimmed  Spanish  beaver.  Why 
did  those  last  words,  "We  shall  meet  again  in  London," 
return  to  him  so  persistently,  and  with  such  a  melancholy 
cadence  ?  If  they  met  again,  then  all  would  be  well,  and 
this  hateful  foreboding  which  chilled  him  through  and 
through,  would  prove  a  device  of  the  fiend's,  designed  to 
weaken  and  depress  him.  It  should  do  nothing  of  the 
kind !  And  putting  his  horse  into  a  hand-gallop,  he  rode 
rapidly  through  the  fair  Kentish  woods,  driving  out  fears 
for  the  future  with  the  words  of  Sydney's  motto,  "Holy 
love  of  country  gives  courage." 


CHAPTER  XL 

WILL'S  COFFEE-HOUSE. 

To  mery  London,  my  most  kyndly  nurse. 

SPENSER. 

THE  sun  was  getting  low  when  Hugo,  having  ridden 
as  hard  as  the  state  of  the  roads  would  permit,  reached 
London.  Even  the  sight  of  his  beloved  Abbey  could  not 
cheer  him,  there  was  no  denying  that  this  sudden  return 
was  highly  distasteful  to  him,  and  weary  with  his  long 
ride,  and  the  heat  of  the  May-day,  he  made  his  way  on 
with  graveness  bordering  on  dejection.  On  past  Charing- 
Cross,  and  along  the  Strand,  with  its  continuous  row  of 
houses  and  shops  on  the  northern  side,  and  its  noble 
mansions  with  gardens  stretching  to  the  river  on  the  south  ; 
on  through  the  busy  throng  of  people,  the  clatter  of 
tongues,  the  ceaseless  noise  of  street  traffickers  who  filled 
the  air  with  their  shrill  cries,  "  Buy  a  dish  of  flounders," 
mingling  with  the  cry  of  "  Ballads,  ballads,  fyne  new 
ballads;"  and  "Fyne  oate  cakes,"  getting  hopelessly 
mixed  with  "Quick  periwinkles;"  while  ever  from  the 


j  24  /V  THE  GOLDEN  DA  KS 

busy  chapmen  at  the  shop  doors  there  was  a  ceaseless 
refrain  of  "What  d'you  lack?     What  d'you  lack ?  " 

Reaching  at  length  the  quiet  of  King's  Bench  Walk,  he 
found  no  one  within  but  old  Jeremiah. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  master,  right  glad,"  said  the  old  serv- 
ant. "And  you  look  all  the  better  for  your  stay  in  the 
country." 

"  Ay,  I  am  well  enough, "said  Hugo,  somewhat  wearily. 
"  What  is  the  meaning  of  it  all,  Jerry?  Why  doth  my 
brother  send  for  me  ?  " 

' '  In  truth,  lad,  I  know  not, "  said  Jerry,  brushing  the 
traveller's  dusty  cloak  while  he  spoke.  ''He  hath  not 
been  well  the  last  two  days,  and  maybe  that  is  the  reason 
he  needs  you." 

"Unwell!  Randolph  unwell,  "exclaimed  Hugo.  "Then 
I  am  right  glad  he  sent  for  me.  Did  he  leave  no  message 
for  me  where  to  find  him  ?  " 

"Ay,  lad,  he  said  an  you  came  before  night  you  were 
to  go  to  him  at  Will's,  he  would  be  there  till  eight  of  the 
clock." 

"Then  I  will  go  to  him  at  once,"  said  Hugo,  promptly. 
"No,"  as  Jeremiah  would  fain  have  detained  him,  "I 
can  rest  there  as  well  as  here.  Lock  up  the  place,  Jerry, 
and  take  a  turn  yourself,  these  chambers  feel  stifling." 

He  hurried  away,  and  emerging  from  the  quiet  regions 
of  the  Temple,  once  more  found  himself  in  the  realms  of 
noise  and  confusion.  Passing  through  Temple  Bar,  he 
made  his  way  through  the  ranks  of  hackney  coaches 
which  stood  for  hire  in  the  open  space  around  the  lofty 
maypole  in  the  Strand.  This  had  stood  there  since  the 
Restoration,  but  since  a  great  gale  in  1672  had  been  shorn 
of  a  third  of  its  height.  This  evening  it  was  gayly  dec- 
orated, and  a  merry  throng  had  gathered  round  it  in  spite 
of  the  grumbling  of  the  hackney  coachmen,  who  would 
not  budge  an  inch  from  their  lawful  territory,  and  pre- 
ferred all  the  pushing  and  jostling  of  the  merrymakers  to 
a  cession  of  their  rights.  Turning  into  the  comparative 
quiet  of  Drury  Lane,  Hugo  made  his  way  to  Will's  coffee- 
house, which  was  near  Covent  Garden,  at  the  western 
corner  of  Bow  Street.  This  coffee-house  was  the  great 
emporium  of  libels  and  scandals,  but  it  was  one  of  the 
best  notwithstanding,  and  had  acquired  the  sobriquet 
of  the  "Wits'  Coffee-House."  Hugo  often  frequented  it 
for  the  sake  of  hearing  the  talk  of  the  poets,  authors,  and 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  125 

celebrities  who  were  in  the  habit  of  meeting  there.  This 
evening  as  he  made  his  way  upstairs  in  the  fading  evening 
light  to  the  chief  room  he  found  it  crowded.  There  was  an 
air  of  ease  and  liberty  about  the  place,  while  the  faces  of 
those  who  lounged  at  the  tables  were,  as  a  rule,  worth 
looking  at.  Some  were  supping,  others  smoking,  others 
reading  the  Observator,  Roger  North's  spiteful  paper,  or 
the  Tory  and  Whig  journals  of  the  day.  Julian,  the 
drunken  and  disreputable  fellow  who  was  in  the  habit  of 
distributing  the  latest  lampoons,  stood  near  the  door  with 
a  sheaf  of  papers  in  his  hand,  many  of  which  were  already 
circulating  in  the  room,  and  which  consisted  of  some  dis- 
gusting verses  on  the  Duke  of  Monmouth.  There  was  a 
buzz  of  general  conversation,  and  at  first  Hugo  could  no- 
where see  his  brother  in  the  crowded  room.  Looking  for 
him,  however,  he  caught  sight  of  Matthew  Prior,  rather 
to  his  surprise — for  by  rights  he  should  have  been  at  Cam- 
bridge— and  the  old  school-fellows  shook  hands  with  each 
other.  Prior  was  a  pleasant  fellow  enough,  but  already 
a  little  spoilt  by  his  high  opinion  of  his  own  powers  and 
by  the  patronage  of  my  Lord  Dorset. 

"Art  looking  for  old  Dryden?"  he  asked  irreverently. 
"  He  was  here  but  a  half-hour  since.  Some  one  happened 
to  breathe  a  word  of  Rose  Alley,  however,  and  the  old 
gentleman  immediately  found  the  room  too  hot  for  him." 

A  few  years  before,  the  poet  had  been  attacked  by 
hired  ruffiaps  on  his  way  to  his  house  in  Gerard  Street, 
and  shamefully  beaten.  The  masked  villains  escaped, 
and  were  never  discovered ;  but  every  one  was  aware 
that  the  insult  had  been  planned  by  Rochester,  to  gratify 
his  private  spite.  The  laureate  never  heard  the  last  of  it. 
however,  and  to  his  dying  day  his  enemies  cast  the  "dis* 
grace  "  in  his  teeth. 

"The  Rose  Alley  ambuscade  disgraced  the  perpetra- 
tors more  than  the  victim  to  my  mind,"  said  Hugo,  quickly. 
For  although  Sydney's  indignation  with  "The  Duke  of 
Guise"  had  shaken  his  former  admiration  of  Dryden,  yet 
he  was  of  too  generous  a  nature  to  tolerate  such  a  refer- 
ence to  the  shameful  ill-treatment  of  one  who  was  no  longer 
young. 

"Have  you  seen  my  brother  ? "  he  questioned. 

"Ay,  there  he  is  in  the  balcony,  and  Dryden  too," 
said  Prior. 

Thither,  accordingly,  Hugo  made  his  way.     He  found 


126  iff  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

a  group  v//  men  lounging  about  the  balcony  smoking  and 
listening  to  the  talk  of  an  old  man  in  a  suit  of  purple 
cloth,  who  sat  in  the  midst  of  them  in  the  arm-chair 
which  had  long  been  consecrated  to  his  sole  use,  and 
which  this  evening  had  been  moved  from  the  hearth  to  its 
summer  quarters  in  the  balcony.  Apparently  they  had 
been  speaking  of  his  recent  poem,  "  Religio  Laici ;  "  and, 
as  far  as  Hugo  could  make  out,  Randolph,  who  had  not 
yet  perceived  him,  was  urging  the  poet  to  write  a  fresh 
play,  and,  proving  that  the  stage  was  the  real  place  from 
which  to  teach  the  people. 

"Ay,"  said  the  poet,  a  smile  on  his  wrinkled  face. 
"Ay,  Betterton,  thou  art  the  preacher  of  the  golden  age." 

He  had  turned  to  a  pleasant-looking  man  of  about  eight- 
and-forty,  who  stood  leaning  against  the  window-frame 
close  to  Hugo.  He  was  the  great  tragedian  of  the  day, 
a  man  as  much  beloved  for  his  personal  amiability  as  for 
his  great  gifts. 

"  Nay,"  he  replied  ;  "  you  are  the  teacher  and  preacher, 
I  am  but  the  mouthpiece.  Nevertheless,  Mr.  Wharncliffe 
is  right ;  the  stage  is  the  national  pulpit." 

"What  would  our  divines  say  to  such  a  bold  state- 
ment ? "  said  Dryden.  "They'll  be  raking  up  the  ancient 
statute,  Betterton,  and  denying  you  Christian  burial !  " 

"Nay,  that  was  but  in  France,  an  I  remember  right," 
said  Betterton,  laughing.  "And  it  was  but  of  late  that 
Dr.  Tillotson  said  to  me  these  very  words.  Said  he, 
'  How  comes  it  about  that  after  I  have  made  the  most 
moving  discourse  I  can,  am  touched  deeply  with  it  my- 
self, and  speak  it  as  feelingly  as  I  am  able,  yet  I  can 
never  move  people  in  the  church  near  so  much  as  you  do 
on  the  stage  ? ' " 

"And  what  reply  made  you?  "  asked  Dryden. 

"  I  replied  that  it  seemed  to  me  easily  to  be  accounted 
for,  since  he  was  only  telling  them  a  story,  and  I  showed 
them  facts." 

"  A  good  answer,  and  true,  very  true,"  said  Dryden. 
"The  stage  is  a  great  power!  Ha!  is  not  that  my 
silver- voiced  youth/'  catching  sight  of  Hugo,  and  nodding 
pleasantly  to  him. 

Randolph  turned  to  greet  him,  and  was  not  ill-pleased 
to  see  him  being  made  much  of  by  the  great  poet  and  the 
first  actor  of  the  day.  Hugo  took  it  all,  as  was  his  habit, 
very  qm^v.  and  there  wac  a  sort  of  graceful  deference  in 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  12  J 

his  manner  to  the  elder  men  which,  being  quite  free  from 
flattery  or  adulation,  had  a  great  charm. 

Dryden  was  pressing  him  to  sing,  but  the  actor  with 
his  ready  observation  and  knowledge  of  faces,  at  once 
perceived  that  he  was  hungry  and  tired. 

"Wait  till  he  has  supped,"  he  said,  "and  presently 
let  us  ask  him  for  the  May-day  song."  Then  linking  his 
arm  within  Hugo's,  he  drew  him  back  into  the  room. 
"Come,  we  will  sup  together,"  he  said.  "I  too  am 
hungry,  and  you,  an  I  mistake  not,  are  just  off  a 
iourney. " 

Supper  ended,  Hugo  began  to  tune  the  lute  which  was 
brought  to  him  by  one  of  the  attendants,  and  then,  as 
Dryden  again  besought  him  for  a  song,  he  sang,  "  Come 
lasses  and  lads,"  with  so  much  spirit,  and  with  such  rare 
sweetness  of  tone,  that  the  whole  assembly  applauded, 
and  were  inclined  to  grumble  when  Randolph,  at  a  much 
earlier  hour  than  usual,  took  his  departure,  signing  to  his 
brother  to  accompany  him. 

Perhaps,  considering  that  all  the  world  was  inclined  to 
treat  Hugo  almost  caressingly  in  deference  to  his  youth 
and  his  unassuming  modesty,  his  great  talents  and  his 
beautiful  face,  it  was  as  well  for  his  character  that  he 
met  with  the  very  reverse  of  this  treatment  in  his  home 
life. 

Randolph  walked  him  home  in  dead  silence — a  silence 
which,  though  Hugo  longed  to  know  the  reason  of  his 
sudden  recall  from  Penshurst,  he  did  not  dare  to  break. 
But  when  they  had  reached  the  Temple  his  guardian's 
stern  brow  cleared,  and  as  if  returning  from  an  anxious 
reverie  he  said  abruptly, 

' '  I  have  somewhat  to  say  to  you,  boy.  Come  with  me ; 
we  will  take  a  turn  in  the  gardens." 

"Jeremiah  tells  me  you  have  been  unwell,"  said  Hugo, 
venturing  at  last  to  speak. 

"Tis  true,  and  partly  for  that  reason  I  sent  for  you. 
But  chiefly  I  sent  because  I  have  a  letter  from  Sir  Pere- 
grine Blake,  and  he,  very  courteously  desiring  that  by- 
gones may  be  bygones,  bids  us  both  to  his  house,  for  the 
coming  of  age  of  his  eldest  son." 

The  brothers  were  pacing  up  and  down  the  Inn«r  Tem- 
ple garden,  and  Hugo  was  thankful  that  the  place  was  al- 
most dark,  for  he  could  not  conceal  his  annoyance.  That 
he  should  have  been  dragged  from  Penshu.  -t  to  go  down 


J28  f**  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

to  the  Suffolk  magistrate's  house  seemed  to  him  almost 
intolerable. 

"Surely,"  he  began,  "surely  the  mere  fact  of  our  duel 
might  excuse  me  from  going ;  I  have  no  wish  to " 

Randolph  interrupted  him  with  a  volley  of  oaths. 

"Who  asked  if  you  had  a  wish?  I  know  naught  of 
wishes  in  the  matter."  He  paused,  wondering  whether  to 
tell  his  plans  or  not 

"But — "  began  Hugo. 

"Not  another  word  !"  said  Randolph  peremptorily. 
"  Be  ready  to  start  with  me  at  noon  to-morrow,  and  let  me 
hear  no  more  of  this  nonsense." 

With  that  he  hastily  left  him ;  but  Hugo  lingered  in  the 
dusky  garden  struggling  with  a  miserable  sense  of  coming 
ill  which  beset  him  once  again  much  as  it  had  done  when 
he  left  Penshurst  And  the  river  flowed  darkly  on,  and 
one  by  one  the  stars  shone  forth  in  the  dim  gray  skies, 
and  the  night  wind  sprang  up,  carrying  on  its  breath  the 
scent  of  the  early  roses  in  the  garden,  drenched  with  dew. 
But  Hugo  heeded  nothing,  only  wrestled  despairingly  with 
this  phantom  of  coming  ill  which  nothing  would  banish 
from  his  mind.  At  length,  worn  out,  he  went  back  to  the 
rooms  in  King's  Bench  Walk,  but  even  in  sleep  the  hor- 
rible oppression  followed  him,  and  he  struggled  all  night 
in  an  imaginary  net  which,  as  fast  as  he  broke  its  meshes, 
closed  up  afresh,  and  eternally  baffled  his  efforts  at  escape. 
It  was  with  a  momentary  sense  of  rapture  that  he  waa 
roused  once  again  to  the  world  of  realities  by  the  familiar 
bell  and  the  deep  voice  of  the  watchman  proclaiming, 
"Past  four  o'clock,  and  a  fine,  windy  morning." 

That  hateful  net  was  gone  !  he  sprang  up  and  looked 
forth.  He  was  free  and  in  his  own  world,  and  there  was 
the  old  watchman  in  the  gray  morning  light,  with  his 
broad-brimmed  hat  and  long  coat  girt  in  at  the  waist,  tha 
lantern  shedding  a  sickly  yellow  gleam  on  the  point  of  his 
halberd.  There,  too,  were  the  familiar  trees  opposite,  and 
the  birds  already  beginning  to  quarrel  and  chatter,  and  in 
the  distance  he  could  hear  the  rumbling  of  market-carts  in 
Fleet  Street.  Four  o'clock — and  at  noon  he  was  to  start 
on  this  uncongenial  journey.  Ah,  well !  the  net  of  his 
dreams  had  passed  away,  and  yet  he  was  environed  by  a 
Strangely  tangled  web  of  circumstances. 


V*  THE  GOLDEN  DAY&  139 

CHAPTER  XO. 

A  COSTLY  MUMMING. 

Oh,  that  a  man  might  know 
The  end  of  this  day's  business  ere  it  come  t 
But  it  sufficeth  that  the  day  will  end, 
And  then  the  end  is  known. 

Julius  Casar. 

THB  fine  windy  morning  heralded  by  the  watchman, 
proved  to  be  one  of  those  glorious  spring  days,  when  city 
streets  seem  well-nigh  intolerable,  and  every  one  longs 
for  the  country.  Hurrying  to  Norfolk  Street  early  in  the 
morning  to  bid  farewell  to  the  Denhams,  Hugo  met  with 
nothing  but  expressions  of  envy,  nor  did  any  one  but  Mary 
understand  his  reluctance  to  be  the  guest  of  Sir  Peregrine 
Blake.  Spite,  however,  of  his  reluctance,  Hugo  was  too 
young  and  too  impressionable  not  to  feel  ere  long  a  certain 
pleasure  in  turning  his  back  on  the  streets  of  London, 
and  riding  out  into  the  open  country,  not  indeed  such 
exquisite  country  as  he  had  had  around  him  at  Penshurst, 
but  rich,  level  tracts,  beautiful  with  spring  flowers,  and 
full  of  that  sense  of  life  and  growth  which  is  typical  of 
a  mild  morning  of  early  May.  Larks  singing  overhead, 
sparrows  chirping  in  every  bush,  lambs  bleating  in  the 
fields,  and  huge  black  rooks  swooping  about  hither  and 
thither  with  deep  caws,  supplying  the  bass  as  it  were  to 
the  rural  symphony. 

Randolph  was  in  an  excellent  temper,  and  made  no  ref- 
erence to  his  displeasure  of  the  previous  evening.  On 
the  contrary  he  had  never  treated  his  brother  more  as  a 
friend  and  companion  ;  they  spoke  of  Penshurst  and  of 
Sydney,  and,  although  Hugo  said  little  or  nothing  of  Syd- 
ney's political  views,  Randolph  could  perceive  that  his 
purpose  had  been  carried  out,  the  youth  evidently  knew 
much  that  might  prove  of  great  value.  This  conscious- 
ness pleased  him  so  well,  that  he  felt  more  kindly  disposed 
to  his  ward  than  he  had  done  for  some  time,  and  by  the 
time  they  had  reached  Bishop-Stortford  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening,  Hugo  had  quite  forgotten  the  v?-~ue  dread  of  the 
previous  night,  and  was  in  the  seventh  Heaven  of  happi- 
9 


130  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

ness.  Very  strange  was  the  subtle  fascination  which  at- 
tracted him  to  that  strong  perverse  nature.  The  mixture 
of  harsh  exactingness  and  real  fondness  on  the  part  of  the 
elder  brother  had  bound  Hugo's  loyal  heart  to  his  with 
bonds  that  nothing  could  dissever. 

Sleeping  that  night  at  Bishop-Stortford,  they  rode  on  to 
Longbridge  Hall  the  following  day  arriving  just  in  time 
for  the  early  dinner.  Sir  Peregrine  had  quite  recovered 
from  his  wound,  and  treated  Hugo  with  a  sort  of  laughing 
deference,  perpetually  referring  to  the  duel  in  a  way  which 
put  him  to  the  blush. 

Nothing,  however,  was  said  of  the  cause  of  the  strife, 
fair  Mistress  Joyce,  nor  indeed  did  any  one  refer  to  Mondis- 
field  Hall.  Once  when  young  Peregrine  Blake,  the  eldest 
son,  had  ridden  over  with  Hugo  and  several  of  the  guests 
to  St.  Edmondsbury,  on  a  Wednesday,  Hugo  for  a  moment 
fancied  that  he  saw  Joyce  among  the  gay  th'ong ;  it  was 
market-day,  and  every  street  was  crowded  with  country 
folks.  But  the  face  only  flashed  upon  him  for  a  moment, 
and  when  he  turned  to  look  once  more  he  could  discern 
nothing  but  the  back  of  a  brown  hood,  and  the  broad  linen 
collar,  puffed  sleeves,  and  straight  skirts  of  a  gown,  which 
had  in  them  nothing  individual.  He  thought  it  was  indeed 
Joyce,  but  he  could  net  feel  sure. 

After  that  it  must  be  confessed  that  she  was  for  the 
time  being  driven  from  his  thoughts  by  the  perpetual  round 
of  gayety  and  amusement  kept  up  at  Longbridge  Hall,  in 
honor  of  the  birthday  of  the  s*on  and  heir.  Long  days  of 
hawking  and  fishing,  bowls,  basset,  dancing,  and  theatri- 
cals almost  banished  from  his  mind  the  sweet  little  Puritan 
maid.  Spite  of  his  forebodings,  he  greatly  enjoyed  the  ten 
days'  recreation,  and  the  jovial  atmosphere  of  the  country- 
house  in  time  of  festival  was  new  to  him, 

Randolph  continued  to  treat  him  with  all  brotherliness, 
and  allowed  him  to  see  that  the  general  homage  which  he 
received  from  the  Suffolk  household  on  account  of  his  fine 
voice  and  handsome  face  was  pleasing  to  his  fraternal 
pride.  What  wonder  if  he  did  not  in  all  things  rise  above 
the  circumstances  in  which  he  was  placed  !  what  wonder 
that  peril,  following  on  the  pleasure,  found  him  unpre- 
pared ! 

One  da^  when  their  stay  was  supposed  to  be  drawing 
to  a  close,  the  whole  family  were  sitting  at  dinner  in  the 
grea*  bail.  when,  after  the  meat  had  been  removed,  and 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  131 

he  chaplain  had,  in  accordance  with  custom,  quitted  the 
^able>  Hugo  was  startled  by  receiving  from  his  brother  a 
signal  to  rise  too.  He  had  always  felt  sorry  for  the  meek 
little  clergyman,  who  retired  from  the  table  when  the  pas- 
try and  sweetmeats  were  served,  only  returning  at  the  end 
to  say  grace  for  the  family.  It  had  always  reminded  him 
of  a  negro  proverb  which  he  had  once  heard  from  the  lips 
of  one  of  the  Duchess  of  Cleveland's  black  servants, — 
"Them  what  eats  kin  say  grace. "  It  had  amused  him 
infinitely  to  see  day  by  day  the  poor  little  chaplain  deco- 
rously giving  thanks  for  what  he  had  not  received.  But 
what  could  this  signal  mean  ?  and  what  was  Randolph 
saying  to  Lady  Blake  ? — something  about  the  wager  he 
had  mentioned  to  her,  mingled  with  compliments  and 
apologies. 

"  And  good  luck  to  you  !  "  said  Sir  Peregrine,  who  al- 
ready was  far  from  sober — "good  luck  to  you  !  We  will 
drink  to  your  success.  ' 

Success  ?  Good  luck  !  A  wager !  What  in  the  world 
did  it  all  smean  ?  Bewildered,  Hugo  followed  his  brother 
out  of  the  hall,  and  upstairs  to  their  chamber,  Randolph 
at  present  vouchsafing  no  explanation  whatever.  Upon 
the  bed  lay  two  suits  of  fantastic-looking  clothes,  much 
the  worse  for  wear,  and  reminding  Hugo  of  the  suits  worn 
by  the  strclling  musicians  who  had  played  a  night  or  two 
since  at  the  ball. 

"Lose  no  time,"  said  Randolph,  concisely.  "Put  on 
those," — he  motioned  to  the  clothes. 

Hugo  obeyed  like  one  in  a  dream.  He  knew  by  Ran- 
dolph's tone  that  a  question  would  but  call  forth  just  such 
a  volley  of  oaths  as  his  question  in  the  Temple  Gardens 
had  done.  He  dressed  obediently,  though  not  without 
some  uneasy  wonder  as  to  the  real  purpose  of  this  extraor- 
dinary disguise.  Dressing  up  and  all  manner  of  theatri- 
cals had,  however,  been  so  much  the  order  of  the  day  of 
late  that  there  was  something  familiar  about  it  after  all, 
and  he  could  not  help  a  little  amusement  when,  on  look- 
ing round,  he  discovered  his  grave  elder  brother  trans- 
formed into  a  very  foreign-looking  fellow,  and  so  altered 
by  the  change  ot  wig  and  dress  that  he  looked  a  typical 
strolling  musician.  Apparently  Randolph  was  not  quite 
so  well  pleased  with  his  survey  of  his  ward,  for  he  mo- 
tioned him  to  a  chair  and  drew  forth  his  large  tortoise* 
shell  comb. 


'3* 


fN  TffE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 


"Your  hair  will  never  do  like  that,"  he  said  "  Now 
listen  to  me  for  a  while,  and  bestow  on  what  I  say  your 
careful  attention,  for  it  is  of  no  slight  importance." 

Hugo,  however,  instead  of  listening,  gave  a  sudden  ex- 
clamation of  surprise  and  dismay,  for,  as  Randolph  spoke 
in  quiet,  measured  tones,  he  felt  some  instrument  close  to 
his  neck,  the  edge  of  which  was  thinner  and  colder  than 
the  comb,  and  the  next  moment  at  one  fell  swoop  his  long 
glossy  mane  was  severed  from  his  head. 

"  Good  heavens  !  brother, "  he  exclaimed,  "thispasseth 
a  joke.  Methinks  our  mumming  is  like  to  prove  costly.'' 

In  his  tone  there  was  some  natural  indignation,  and 
Randolph,  autocratic  as  he  was,  thought  it  well  to  make 
all  due  apologies. 

"Vex  not  yourself,"  he  said.  "  I  would  not  have  done 
such  a  thing  an  it  had  not  been  necessary.  And  see  here, 
I  give  you  on  the  instant  the  full  money's  worth  of  those 
locks  of  which  you  have  been  shorn.  Take  these  fifty 
guineas,  and  Rupert  Denham  shall  take  you  to  the  crack 
wig-maker  in  London  the  instant  we  return. " 

Hugo  passively  allowed  the  gold  to  be  placed  in  his 
hand,  but  he  was  evidently  much  more  annoyed  than  he 
had  ever  appeared  to  be  before,  and  the  elder' brother 
somehow  perceived  that  the  days  of  his  absolute  tyranny 
over  his  ward  were  likely  to  draw  rapidly  to  an  end. 

"You  deserve  some  explanation  of  this  summary  act," 
he  began,  diplomatically.  "  And  yet,  Hugo,  I  must  ask 
you  in  the  main  to  trust  me.  This  much,  however,  I  may 
tell  you.  I  have  accepted  an  enormous  wager  success- 
fully to  carry  out  a  day's  work  in  the  disguise  of  a  stroll- 
?ng  musician.  Without  you  1  cannot  do  it ;  and,  believe 
jie,  you  shall  not  be  the  loser,  if  I  can  manage  all  that  I 
wish. " 

"  But "  began  Hugo,   doubtfully. 

"No  buts,"  said  Randolph,  peremptorily.  "The  buts 
are  for  me  to  think  of,  not  for  you  to  suggest " 

"  I  hate  your  plans  and  your  mysteries  !  "  broke  in 
Hugo,  passionately,  as  all  the  vague  dread  and  the  dim 
Suspicion  returned  to  him  again  with  double  force. 

"  Hate  them,  or  like  them,  'tis  all  one  to  me,"  said  Ran- 
Uolph,  coldly.  "I  have  need  of  your  services  and  I 
command  them.  No  more  of  this;  we  lose  time.  Follow 
Ltlx  ;  and  not  another  word  I  " 

Chafing  under  an  intolerable  sense  of  injustice,  and  a 


fjf  THE,  GOLDEN  DAYS.  133 

consciousness  that  the  toils  were  closing  upon  him  which 

he  was  powerless  to  break,  Hugo  followed  his  brother 
down  a  back  staircase,  typical  enough  to  his  mind  of  the 
whole  proceeding.  All  had  apparently  been  well  arranged. 
They  left  Longbridge  Hall  without  encountering  a  soul, 
and  close  to  the  entrance-gate  found  their  horses  waiting 
for  them,  ready  saddled,  and  tied  to  a  tree.  In  dead  silence 
they  mounted  and  rode  away,  a  curious  looking  pair — 
Randolph  apparently  in  high  spirits,  Hugo  vaguely  miser- 
able. With  his  short,  curly  hair,  his  suit  of  travel- 
stained,  blue  cloth,  decked  here  and  there  with  faded 
ribbons,  and  a  pair  of  down-trodden  boots,  of  which  he 
was  keenly  ashamed,  it  was  impossible  to  conceive  any- 
thing more  unlike  the  young  gentleman  of  the  period. 
His  very  reluctance,  and  his  air  of  uneasiness,  made  the 
disguise  yet  more  effectual,  and  he  looked  so  precisely  the 
home-sick  German  whom  Randolph  desired  him  to  por- 
tray, that  the  elder  brother  could  scarcely  suppress  a 
chuckle  of  amused  satisfaction  whenever  he  glanced  at 
him. 

"You  shall  not  be  forced  to  tell  lies  in  my  behoof,"  he 
said  at  length,  with  a  touch  of  merriment  in  his  voice 
which  grated  on  Hugo.  "A  veritable  musician  from  St 
Edmondsbury  will  meet  us  anon,  and  you  and  I  will  turn 
then  into  two  German  minstrels,  and  borrow  the  '  ja '  and 
'  nein '  of  our  forbears. " 

Hugo  thought  of  his  ancestor,  the  brave  Count  Hugo, 
and  involuntarily  he  shuddered 

' '  Come, "  said  Randolph,  ' '  take  it  not  so  soberly.  Most 
lads  would  enter  into  the  fun  with  some  show  of  spirit 
Denham  would  enjoy  the  mumming,  and  be  the  life  of 
our  party.  Don't  be  a  fool,  Hugo  I  Trust  me  this  shall 
all  turn  to  your  advantage." 

Perhaps  the  tone  of  this  last  speech  did  to  some  extent 
allay  Hugo's  fears.  He  brightened  up  a  little,  and  began 
to  practise  fragments  of  German  talk,  and  to  consider 
what  German  songs  he  could  sing.  A  few  years  before 
they  had  visited  their  German  kinsfolk,  who  still  lived  in 
Count  Hugo's  old  castle,  and  both  he  and  his  brother  knew 
the  language  well. 

Before  long  they  came  in  sight  of  a  small  wayside  inn, 
and  here  Randolph  reined  in  his  steed,  and  dismounted, 
bidding  Hugo  follow  his  example.  An  ostler  appearing, 
Randolph  gave  orders  that  the  horses  should  be  put  up, 


134  tN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

and  Hugo,  wondering  much  what  was  about  to  happen, 
entered  the  in~*  reluctantly  enough.  Two  men  came  to 
meet  them  in  the  flagged  passage,  the  landlord,  who 
proved  to  be  one  of  Sir  Peregrine  Blake's  old  retainers, 
and  the  musician  from  St.  Edmondsbury,  a  round-faced, 
jovial-looking  man,  by  name  Peter  Pierson,  wearing  a 
dress  almost  exactly  similar  to  that  donned  by  the  two 
brothers.  Randolph  had  told  him  about  the  great  wager 
for  which  he  was  undertaking  this  masquerade,  and  the 
little  man  quite  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing,  and  had 
of  course  sworn  the  strictest  secrecy.  He  had  brought  with 
him  his  fiddle,  and  a  viol  da  gamba  for  Randolph.  Hugo 
had,  at  Randolph's  request,  brought  his  own  lute.  Hav- 
ing slung  their  instruments  across  their  shoulders,  and 
tasted  the  landlord's  home-brewed  ale,  they  set  off  on 
their  expedition,  forsaking  the  high-road,  and  following 
Peter  Pierson  across  country. 

Whither?  That  was  the  question  which  filled  Hugo's 
mind.  A  terror  had  taken  possession  of  him  that  Mondis- 
field  might  in  some  way  be  connected  with  this  strange 
undertaking.  And  yet  how  should  strolling  musicians 
have  aught  to  do  what  that  sober  Puritan  household  ?  It 
was  scarcely  possible,  and  yet  the  haunting  dread  would 
recur  to  him,  and  he  found  himself  continually  remember- 
ing that  hurried  walk  to  the  Hall  on  the  night  of  the  fifth 
of  October.  In  vain  he  tried,  however,  to  distinguish  any 
feature  of  the  landscape  which  would  prove  to  him  that 
*Jiey  were  in  the  same  neighborhood.  It  was  just  the 
.same  slightly  undulating  country  that  stretched  on  and  on 
for  miles  throughout  Suffolk,  nor  could  he  anywhere  see 
the  gray  tower  of  Mondisfield  Church,  or  the  four  cross 
roads,  or  the  brook.  He  plodded  on  heavily  in  his  un- 
comfortable boots,  following  his  brother  and  Peter,  and 
ever  with  a  growing  distaste  to  the  work  which  lay  before 
him.  At  length  Randolph  turned  back  to  him. 

"Carry  this  viol  for  me,"  he  said  ;  "  'tis  mighty  heavy." 

Hugo  quietly  accepted  the  additional  burden,  but  im- 
patience and  vexation  as  to  the  expedition  itself  unloosed 
his  tongue. 

"  Where  are  we  going?  "  he  said,  shortly,  and  in  a  tone 
which  demanded  an  answer. 

"Only  to  a  house  whither  honest  Peter  is  in  the  habit 
of  going  every  year,"  said  Randolph,  cheerfully.  "An- 
other coming-of-age  party,  and  a  feast  for  the  tenantry. 


/V  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  135 

Oddsfish  !  boy,  keep  up  your  heart,  'tis  no  great  thing  I 
have  asked  of  you." 

"  What  if  our  disguise  be  discovered  ? "  asked  Hugo. 

"An  impossibility,"  replied  Randolph.  "Audi' faith 
there  is  no  disgrace  in  a  little  masquerade.  Why,  it  was 
but  lately  that  the  Duchess  of  Cleveland  tired  herself  as 
an  orange  woman  and  came  down  to  the  Temple.  And 
you  yourself  know  that  the  Queen  even  dressed  up  .as  a 
peasant  woman  and  went  to  a  fair." 

"  Yes,  and  was  speedily  discovered,"  said  Hugo. 

Randolph's  tone  suddenly  changed. 

"  If  you  lead  to  our  discovery,  I'll  never  forgive  you  !  " 
he  said,  through  his  teeth.  Then  recovering  himself  he 
added,  "But  all  will  go  well.  Do  merely  as  I  tell  you  ; 
speak  only  in  German,  and  discovery  is  impossible." 

With  that  he  left  him  and  rejoined  Peter,  while  Hugo, 
relieved  of  his  fears  about  Mondisfield,  followed  wearily 
across  fields  and  through  woods,  until  they  emerged  into 
a  park  where  deer  were  grazing  under  the  oak-trees.  Ah  ! 
there  at  last  was  the  house ;  an  avenue  of  oaks  in  front,  a 
moat  with  a  slight  wooden  bridge  crossing  it,  a  long,  ram- 
bling, irregular,  Suffolk  hall,  and  surely  not  Mondisfield. 
For  had  not  Mondisfield  an  avenue  of  elm-trees  in  front 
of  it  ?  And  was  not  the  moat  much  further  from  the  house, 
and  spanned  by  an  ancient  drawbridge  leading  to  the 
bowling  green  ? 

Hugo  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  as  he  followed  the  others 
across  the  bridge  and  up  the  well-kept  garden  path  to  the 
door  where  Peter  knocked  loudly,  and  Randolph  resumed 
his  viol. 

A  maid  opened  to  them. 

"Ah,  the  musicians  from  St  Edmondsbury ! "  she  ex- 
claimed, looking  well  pleased.  "Glad  to  see  you  again, 
Master  Peter ;  here's  a  fine  doings  to-day  with  us." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Peter,  entering  and  signing  to  the  other 
two  to  follow  him.  "  In  our  old  quarters,  my  lass  ?  " 

"Ay,"  she  said,  looking  curiously  at  Hugo,  "ay,  up  in 
the  gallery,  master.  Why,  you've  brought  some  new 
comrades. " 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  with  a  laugh,  "foreigners  fresh  from 
Germany,  and  I'll  warrant  you  they'll  play  you  some 
merry  tunes  anon." 

"Lord!"  exclaimed  the  girl.  "Did  they  come  from 
foreign  parts?  Take  some  ale,  master,  before  you  go  up," 


136  Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

she  said,  turning  to  Hugo,  evidently  much  struck  with 
his  boyish  good  looks. 

He  crimsoned,  and  uttered  two  or  three  words  in  Ger- 
man which  entranced  her. 

"  Lord,  how  strange  he  do  talk  !  "  she  cried,   laughing. 

"He  saith  he  cannot  speak  your  tongue,  mistress,  "said 
Peter,  with  a  grin.  "No,  never  mind  the  ale;  we  are 
late,  and  will  go  up  straight  and  give  them  a  tune." 

The  maid  opened  a  door,  which  Hugo  thought  belonged 
to  a  cupboard,  but  it  proved  to  be  the  entrance  to  a  very 
narrow,  steep  staircase,  at  the  top  of  which  was  a  small 
room,  and  beyond  this  again  the  old  minstrel's  gallery. 

Had  he  not  been  so  desperately  uncomfortable  and 
ashamed  of  this  masquerade,  Hugo  would  have  been 
pleased  by  the  picturesqueness  of  the  scene  which  greeted 
him  when,  following  his  elders,  he  emerged  from  the  little 
room  into  the  broad  gallery,  with  its  polished  floor  and 
massive  wooden  banisters.  Down  below  in  the  big  hall 
were  ranged  long  tables,  laden  with  good  cheer,  and  the 
tenantry  were  doing  ample  justice  to  the  annual  feast, 
and  looked  charmingly  comfortable  and  happy.  As  it 
was,  however,  he  shrank  as  far  as  possible  into  the  back- 
ground, and  hardly  looked  at  anything,  bestowing  all 
his  attention  on  the  tuning  of  his  lute.  Then  Peter 
handed  round  the  well-worn  sheets  of  paper  containing 
the  various  parts,  and  Hugo  found  that  his  music  was  so 
badly  copied  that  it  required  all  his  attention.  It  was 
not  until  a  song  was  demanded  that  he  really  looked 
down  at  the  people.  But  when,  at  a  signal  from  Ran- 
dolph, he  stood  up  to  sing  a  German  Volkslied,  he  could 
not  avoid  seeing  his  audience.  As  he  sang,  his  eyes 
wandered  from  one  to  another  in  the  crowd  below  ;  he 
had  never  sung  before  to  such  a  rustic  assembly,  and  the 
open-mouthed  astonishment,  and  the  grins  of  delight  at 
the  novel  German  song,  could  not  fail  to  amuse  him.  It 
was  not  till  the  last  verse  that  he  looked  quite  to  the  further 
end  of  the  long  hall,  where,  in  the  doorway  leading  to 
some  other  room,  there  stood  a  group  of  girls,  listening. 
These  no  doubt  were  the  daughters  of  the  house,  and  in- 
stinct;vely  his  eyes  travelled  rapidly  from  one  to  another, 
till  with  a  shock,  that  for  the  time  being  almost  paralyzed 
him,  they  rested  on  Joyce  Wharncliffe. 

There  she  stood,  hand  in  hand  with  Evelyn,  her  little 
figure  drawn  up  to  its  full  height — for  was  not  this  the 


>A  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  137 

festival  day  of  the  whole  year,  and  did  not  the  new  blue 
gown  demand  a  stately  deportment  ?  Her  short  waves 
of  sunny  brown  hair,  her  wide-open  blue  eyes,  her  piquant 
little  mouth,  looked  just  as  they  had  looked  on  that 
autumn  Sunday  when  Hugo  had  last  parted  with  her. 
Good  heavens  !  for  what  purpose  had  Randolph  brought 
him  to  this  house — this  house,  which,  after  all,  must 
be  Mondisfield,  approached,  perhaps,  from  the  back  in- 
stead of  the  front !  A  deadly  faintness  stole  over  him, 
an  oppression  from  which  no  effort  could  free  him  ;  his 
voice  wavered,  his  lips  refused  to  form  the  words  of  the 
song,  wreaths  of  white  mists  seemed  to  float  suddenly 
across  the  hall,  and  he  broke  down. 

Presently,  above  the  confused  babel  of  voices  in  the 
hall  below,  above  Peter's  fiddli  g,  above  Randolph's 
muttered  remonstrances,  Hugo  became  aware  of  steps 
ascending  the  little  staircase.  Peter  stopped  his  tune  and 
turned  round  to  greet  an  elderly  nurse  who  stepped  into 
the  gallery  bearing  a  tankard  of  hot  spiced  ale,  and 
followed  rather  shyly  by  Joyce  and  Evelyn. 

"So  Master  Peter,"  she  began,  "has  he  fainted,  your 
young  foreigner  ?  My  mistress  bade  me  carry  him  this 
ale.  Poor  lad,  you've  ver-tired  him  with  the  long  walk. " 

Htigo  accepted  the  tankard,  glad  of  anything  in  which 
he  could  for  a  moment  hide  his  face,  and  conceal  the 
agony  of  shame,  and  fear,  and  perplexity  which  swept 
over  him. 

If  only  those  blue  eyes  would  not  look  at  him  with 
such  compassion,  he  could  have  borne  it  better. 

"How  tired  he  looks!"  said  Joyce.  "And  oh,  see, 
Evelyn,  how  fine  a  lute  he  has  !  no  wonder  it  sounded  so 
sweetly.  Shall  I  ask  him  to  let  us  look  at  it?  " 

She  drew  nearer. 

"  I  hope  you  are  better,  "she  said,  kindly,  speaking  quite 
as  courteously  to  him  in  his  character  of  poor  musician 
as  she  had  done  six  months  before,  when  in  very  different 
attire  he  had  lain  back  on  the  grass  while  she  bandaged 
his  wound. 

He  made  the  briefest  of  replies  in  German,  and  she 
turned  to  Peter. 

"Does  he  only  speak  his  own  tongue?"  she  said. 
"Ah,  then,  good  master  Peter,  make  him  understand, 
please,  how  sorry  all  the  people  are,  and  that  we  hope 
he  will  rest  and  perchance  be  able  to  sing  to  us  later  on." 


I38  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"He  can  but  speak  his  own  tongue,  lady,"  said  Peter, 
pulling  his  forelock,  "but  he  can  understand  what  is  said 
to  him.  How  now,  Karl ;  look  up,  my  man,  the  young 
lady  would  fain  hear  you  sing  again.  Thou'lt  soon  be 
fit,  eh  ? " 

An  insane  longing  to  throw  aside  all  disguise,  to  pro- 
claim himself  Joyce's  kinsman,  nearly  overmastered  Hugo, 
and  Randolph  read  his  thoughts.  He  turned  to  him  with 
a  look  so  fierce  that  Joyce  involuntarily  stepped  back  a 
pace,  and  with  angry  gestures  and  a  torrent  of  German, 
of  which  she  could  not  understand  a  word,  he  thrust  the 
lute  back  into  his  brother's  hand  and  bade  him  at  once 
resume  his  duties. 

"  He  shall  sing  anon,"  he  said,  with  a  very  foreign  ac- 

nt,  turning  to  Joyce.  But  the  smile  on  his  face  contrasted 
so  unpleasantly  with  the  look  she  had  just  before  seen  on 
i  hat  she  shrank  away  from  him,  and  was  not  sorry  to 
quit  th  gallery  altogether,  so  violent  was  the  antipathy 
which  she  all  at  once  conceived  for  him. 

The  thought  of  the  tired  lutist  a  little  interfered  with 
her  pleasure,  and  even  when  the  country-dances  began 
and  delightful  music,  delightful  motion,  delightful  excite- 
ment and  novelty  kept  her  radiantly  happy,  she  would 
every  now  and  then  give  a  glance  towards  the  galler  , 
and  wonder  how  poor,  tired  Karl  and  his  cross  father 
were  feeling.  It  was  a  puzzling  world  where  some  must 
fiddle  for  others  to  dance  to,  however  weary  or  ill. 

After  a  time,  when  there  was  a  pause  in  the  dancing, 
came  some  more  songs,  and  Joyce,  standing  by  her  father, 
watched  the  singer  intently.  He  sang  well,  yet  not  as  he 
had  sung  at  first ;  there  was  now  an  amount  of  effort  in 
his  singing  which  to  Joyce  quite  spoilt  the  pleasure  of 
hearing  him.  He  sang  coldly,  resolutely,  as  if  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  go  through  with  it,  however  much 
it  cost  ;  and  he  stood  rigidly  still,  seeming  to  notice 
nothing. 

"  He  has  a  fine  face,"  said  Colonel  Wharncliffe.  "  How 
strange  it  seems  to  see  once  more  the  fashions  of  my 
youth  !  Short  hair  is  to  my  mind  more  manly  than  these 
long  locks  and  portentous  wigs.  The  German  youth  sets 
us  a  good  example." 

After  that  came  more  dancing,  and  the  musicians  in  the 
gallery  were  kept  hard  at  work  until  the  time  came  for  the 
finale  of  the  evening,  the  speech  by  Colonel  Wharncliffe. 


GOLDEN  DA  YS.  139 

and  the  drinking  of  healths.  The  evening  had  now  closed 
in,  the  red  curtains  had  been  drawn  across  the  two  huge 
windows,  lamps  and  candles  had  been  lighted  in  the  old 
hall,  and  the  tenants  stood  in  groups  listening  to  the  few 
words  which  the  colonel  never  failed  to  say  to  them  each 
year. 

But  for  once  in  her  life  Joice  did  not  listen.  For  look- 
ing up  to  the  gallery  where  candles  were  also  burning,  she 
could  plainly  see  the  German  lutist  through  the  wooden 
banisters,  and  there  was  something  in  his  face  which 
diverted  her  attention  from  her  father's  speech.  She  had 
a  strong  impression  that  she  had  seen  him  before,  and 
kept  puzzling  her  brain  to  remember  where  it  could  have 
been.  He  sat  now  a  little  apart  from  his  companions, 
rigidly  still,  and  with  a  sort  of  blank  hopelessness  in  his 
face  which  startled  her.  He  never  moved,  he  never  even 
looked  to  the  right  or  to  the  left.  What  story  belonged  to 
that  face,  she  wondered?  Perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  his 
own  country  and  wishing  himself  there  ;  perhaps  he  was 
planning  an  escape  from  that  cross  father.  And  even  in 
all  the  bustle  and  confusion  of  departure,  when  the  tenants 
were  putting  on  their  hats  and  cloaks,  Joice  still  was 
able  to  observe  the  last  of  the  two  Germans.  Honest  old 
Peter  had  hastened  away  to  see  if  supper  was  being 
brought  for  them,  and  the  elder  man  stood  with  one  hand 
on  the  viol  and  the  other  on  the  lutist's  shoulder,  as  though 
he  held  him  against  his  will  that  he  might  the  better  talk 
with  him.  The  light  shone  full  on  the  face  of  the  younger, 
and  even  at  that  distance  Joice  could  see  how  miserable 
he  looked.  It  was  the  misery  of  one  who  struggles,  but, 
lacking  confidence,  struggles  without  hope. 

"To  bed,  my  little  Joice,  to  bed,"  said  her  father,  " or 
you  will  be  overweary." 

And  Joice  was  fain  to  obey,  though  she  longed  to  know 
how  that  talk  between  the  musicians  would  end.  Turn- 
ing for  a  last  look  at  them  as  she  quitted  the  hall,  she  saw 
that  they  still  kept  the  same  position,  but,  rather  to  her 
dismay,  she  found  that  the  younger  one  was  aware  she 
had  been  watching  them,  for  his  eyes  rested  upon  her 
now,  and  the  sadness  and  despair  in  them  seemed  to  strike 
to  her  very  heart.  She  ran  swiftly  upstairs,  half  blinded 
by  tears,  which,  though  she  could  not  have  explained 
them,  somehow  made  her  feel  ashamed. 


(40  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

CHAPTER  XIIL 

A   FALL. 

Judge  not  thy  friend  until  thou  standest  in  his  place. 

RABBI  HILLEL. 

IT  was  night  The  tenants  had  long  since  departed 
The  tired  servants  were  all  asleep.  The  whole  family  had 
retired,  and  every  light  in  the  house,  save  one,  was  out. 
That  one  light  burnt  in  a  dark  lantern  belonging  to  Ran- 
dolph, and  it  stood  on  the  floor  of  the  little  room  which 
led  to  the  musician's  gallery.  From  time  immemorial, 
old  Peter  and  his  companions  from  St.  Edmondsbury  had 
supped  and  slept  in  this  room  on  the  night  of  the  twelfth 
of  May.  Colonel  Wharncliffe  would  not  hear  of  allowing 
them  to  tramp  all  the  way  back  to  St.  Edmondsbury,  and 
this  small  room,  which  was  never  used  by  any  one  else, 
served  as  a  shelter  for  the  musicians.  Its  accommodation 
was  certainly  the  reverse  of  luxurious  :  it  contained  noth- 
ing but  a  rough  table  and  a  few  benches,  and  old  Peter, 
very  drowsy  after  the  deep  potations  in  which  Randolph 
had  encouraged  him,  was  sleeping  soundly  on  the  bare 
floor,  rolled  up  in  his  blue  cloth  cloak,  and  with  a  fiddle- 
case  by  way  of  pillow.  At  the  table,  with  both  arms 
stretched  across  it,  and  his  face  hidden,  sat  Hugo.  It 
was  a  long  time  since  he  had  moved.  Randolph  half 
thought  he  must  be  asleep  ;  he  sat  watching  him  with  an 
expression  of  mingled  anxiety  and  contempt,  and  waited 
impatiently  until  he  heard  the  clock  in  the  hall  strike 
twelve.  At  the  sound  a  slight  movement  was  apparent 
in  Hugo's  shoulders,  and  at  length  he  raised  a  face  in 
which  there  was  no  trace  of  sleepiness,  nothing  but  a  look 
at  once  apprehensive  and  reluctant.  He  had  promised  to 
follow  Randolph,  but  to  what,  or  for  what  purpose,  he 
had  not  the  slightest  idea. 

"  Take  off  your  boots,"  said  the  elder  brother. 

He  obeyed,  and  followed  Randolph  through  the  door 
which  led  to  the  little  staircase,  a  most  steep  and  precip- 
itous descent,  down  which  they  had  to  creep  with  the  ut- 
most caution.  At  length,  twisting  sharply  to  the  right, 
they  found  themselves  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  Ran- 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  141 

dolph  endeavored  to  open  the  door  which  led  into  the 
passage  beyond.  Cautiously  he  turned  the  handle ;  turned 
it  first  one  way,  then  the  other,  but  all  to  no  purpose. 
Beyond  a  doubt  the  door  had  been  locked  upon  them. 
He  swore  a  deep  oath  under  his  breath,  and  remounted 
the  stairs.  They  led  on  higher  than  the  gallery.  He 
noiselessly  crept  up,  and  tried  the  upper  door.  That  too 
was  securely  locked.  Evidently,  while  showing  his  hos- 
pitality and  thoughtfulness  for  the  musicians,  Colonel 
Wharncliffe  took  good  care  not  to  trust  them  imprudently. 
The  brothers  stood  motionless  for  a  minute  pn  the  stair- 
case. Upon  Hugo's  face  there  was  written  unmistakably 
an  intense  relief.  Randolph,  catching  sight  of  this  expres- 
sion, flushed  with  a  sudden  anger,  and,  as  if  all  at  once 
gaining  a  solution  to  his  difficulties,  he  cautiously  crept 
back  to  the  little  room,  and  motioned  to  Hugo  to  follow 
him  into  the  gallery.  Then  he  turned  and  closed  the  half 
glass  door,  so  that  Peter  should  not  be  disturbed  by  their 
movements. 

What  in  the  world  was  he  going  to  do  ?  He  walked  to 
the  front  of  the  gallery  and  looked  down  over  the  broad 
wooden  rail  at  the  top  of  the  banisters.  As  far  as  he  could 
judge  in  the  dim  light,  the  floor  of  the  gallery  was  about 
nine  or  ten  feet  from  the  ground  in  the  hall  below,  the 
wooden  railings  not  more  than  four  feet  high.  The  survey 
seemed  to  satisfy  him. 

"You  are  a  fair  athlete,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  turn- 
ing to  Hugo.  "And,  since  my  climbing  days  are  ended, 
I  must  trust  this  matter  to  you." 

"What  matter?" 

"  An  affair  of  supreme  concern  both  to  ourselves  and  to 
the  country." 

"  I  would  fain  serve  my  country  in  other  ways  than  by 
stealing  at  night  through  other  men's  houses,"  said  Hugo, 
bitterly. 

"Possibly  you  may  live  to  do  so,  but  at  present  your 
duty  is  to  obey  me,"  said  Randolph,  coldly.  "  Listen,  for 
the  fewer  words  we  have  the  better.  I  know,  on  certain 
evidence,  that  in  this  house  there  are  hid  treasonable 
papers,  papers  that  might  be  of  infinite  service  if  exposed. 
You  will  probably  find  them  either  in  the  room  imme- 
diately opposite  us — where  we  saw  the  conspirators  last 
year — or  you  will  find  them  in  the  chamber  they  call  the 
south  parlpr,  for  which  you  must  search-  Examine  all 


I42  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

receptacles  ;  be  careful  to  overlook  no  secret  drawers,  and 
look  well  to  see  whether  any  of  the  panels  are  so  arranged 
as  to  slide  back." 

During  all  this  time,  Hugo  had  listened  indeed,  but  his 
face  had  given  evidence  of  the  feelings  that  were  struggling 
within  him.  What !  was  he  to  do  this — this  shameful 
thing  in  the  house  of  Joyce's  father  ?  Bring  ruin  upon 
him  ? ,  Bring  sorrow  to  her  ?  Never  ! 

"  I  cannot  do  it,"  he  said,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  is  be- 
ing tortured. 

A  flat  refusal  such  as  this  from  Hugo  meant  a  great 
deal.  Randolph  saw  at  once  that  he  must  take  strong 
measures. 

A  shade  came  over  his  dark  face ;  he  quietly  drew  out 
a  pistol,  and  cocked  it. 

' '  I  am  fond  of  you, "  he  said,  calmly,  perhaps  failing  to 
see  the  irony  of  his  words,  while  he  grasped  his  brother 
firmly  in  one  hand,  and  held  the  pistol  to  his  head  with 
the  other.  "I  am  fond  of  you,  Hugo,  but  unless  you 
swear  to  me  that  you  will  do  as  I  tell  you, — by  heaven  ! 
I'll  blow  out  your  brains  this  moment" 

' '  That  would  scarce  serve  your  turn, "  said  Hugo,  quietly. 
"Murderers  can  scarce  inherit  a  fair  estate." 

"  Fool  I  "  cried  Randolph.  "  Do  you  think  I  could  not 
make  it  appear  that  you  had  killed  yourself !  Ay,  I  would 
willingly  swear  you  did ;  for,  in  truth,  a  refusal  would  be  self- 
murder.  Come,  make  your  choice  and  be  quick.  Save 
the  honor  of  your  family,  save  your  country  from  ruin,  or 
else  go  to  instant  death,  and  be  by  all  men  deemed  to 
suicide. " 

Hugo's  breath  came  fast  and  hard  ;  a  frightful  choice 
lay  before  him  !  And  he  was  young,  and  life  was  so 
sweet ;  and  to  die  thus  by  Randolph's  own  hand  seemed 
intolerable  !  Good  heavens  !  what  would  avail  him  ? 

To  call  to  Peter  for  help  would  never  do, — the  whole 
household  would  be  roused  by  a  call  loud  enough  to 
awaken  the  old  musician  after  the  amount  of  home-brewed 
ale  he  had  consumed.  In  despair,  he  glanced  around  for 
some  means  of  escape,  but  escape  there  was  none.  The 
dim  light  from  the  lantern  just  sufficed  to  show  the  great 
emptiness  of  the  hall  below;  the  broad  gallery,  with  its 
quaint  old  pictures  and  its  massive  balustrades,  caged  him 
hopelessly,  and  the  face  of  his  guardian,  hard,  fixed,  grim 
as  fate,  confronted  him  pitilessly. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  143 

There  was  no  help,  no  hope,  nothing  but  death — and 
death  at  the  hands  of  the  man  who  was  nearest  him  in 
all  the  world. 

Inevitably  the  old  tie,  the  bond  of  loyal  obedience,  held 
him  fast  in  this  extremity.  Only  once  in  his  whole  life 
had  he  disobeyed  Randolph.  Could  he  do  so  now? 

Alas  !  contrasted  with  the  misery,  and  the  death,  and 
the  wrath  of  his  guardian,  imagination  all  too  quickly 
painted  a  possible  alternative.  He  might  obey,  and 
search,  and,  after  all,  there  might  be  no  papers.  If  papers 
•were  found  they  might  not,  after  all,  prove  treasonable. 
They  might  not  implicate  Joyce's  father.  The  Govern- 
ment might  not  think  them  worthy  of  notice.  A  loop- 
hole of  escape  seemed  to  lie  in  this  direction.  He  wav- 
ered, looked  up  once  again  into  the  stern  face  above  him, 
to  see  if  any  mercy  lay  hid  there.  But  he  knew  only  too 
well  that  what  Randolph  said,  that  he  meant — knew  that, 
his  mind  once  set  on  any  object,  he  would  pursue  it,  cost 
what  it  might  1 

"The  time  waxes  short,"  said  Randolph,  sharply. 
"Speak  quickly  and  make  your  choice." 

Vaguely  Hugo  felt  that  if  the  circumstances  had  been 
only  a  little  different  he  could  have  withstood  longer, 
could  even  pernaps  have  chosen,  as  he  knew  he  ought  to 
have  chosen,  the  death  at  the  hands  of  his  brother.  But 
the  horror  of  the  semi-darkness,  the  utter  helplessness,  the 
loneliness  and  eerieness  of  that  awful  scene  in  the  dead  of 
night,  the  impossibility  of  self-defence,  the  very  quietness 
of  voice  which  was  so  imperatively  necessary,  and  which 
strangled  the  arguments  that  with  free  scope  for  speech  he 
might  have  used,  all  this  paralyzed  him. 

"  I  will," — there  was  a  pause,  a  slight  struggle, — "I  will 
— obey  you."  The  words  were  scarcely  above  his 
breath.  Randolph  required  something  more  definite  than 
this. 

"Swear  that  you  will  search  thoroughly,"  he  said,  not 
lowering  his  pistol.  "Swear  it  on — "  he  felt  for  his 
sword,  which  had  of  course  been  left  at  Longbridge 
Hall  with  his  own  clothes,  then  looked  round  for  some 
other  sacred  emblem.  "Swear  it  on  this  cross." 

He  pointed  to  a  picture  close  beside  them.  It  was  of  a 
nun,  probably  some  member  of  his  own  family,  painted 
years  ago.  Her  face  was  young  and  fair,  with  sweet, 
calm  eyes,  and  a  mouth  which  looked  as  if  it  had  learnt 


144  *N  THE  GOLDEN  DA  KS. 

stem  self-control  in  a  hard  school.  About  the  face  there 
was  an  indescribable  expression  of  peace  and  content 
In  her  hand  she  held  an  open  breviary,  round  her  neck 
there  hung  a  cross. 

' '  Swear  it  on  this  !  "  reiterated  Randolph,  dragging  him 
up  to  the  picture. 

And,  ever  with  the  pistol  held  close  to  his  temple,  Hugo 
hurried  through  the  words  which  he  loathed. 

"  I  swear  that  I  will  search  thoroughly,  and  will  bring 
you  all  I  find,  so  help  me  God. "  As  his  right  hand  rested 
against  the  painted  cross,  he  could  have  sworn  that  the 
nun  looked  at  him  with  grief  and  reproach  in  her  eyes, 
He  turned  away,  his  heart  heavy  as  lead.  But  Randolph 
startled  him  by  a  sudden  embrace, 

"  God  bless  you,  lad  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "You  have  re- 
lieved me  from  an  awful  task. " 

There  was  genuine  relief  in  his  face ;  he  would  assur- 
edly have  blown  his  brother's  brains  out  had  he  disobeyed, 
but  yet  it  would  have  cost  him  much  to  do  it  For  there 
were  strange  gleams  of  humanity  about  Randolph,  for  all 
his  brutality  and  his  tyrannical  love  of  power. 

Those  few  words  restored  a  certain  amount  of  animation 
to  Hugo  ;  all  his  anxiety  now  was  to  get  through  his  hate- 
ful task  speedily.  At  any  other  time  he  would  have 
thought  twice  about  climbing  down  such  a  break-neck 
place.  Now,  even  in  the  semi-darkness,  and  with  every- 
thing against  him,  he  cared  not  a  rush. 

Before  Randolph  could  offer  another  suggestion  he  was 
over  the  banisters,  the  next  moment  his  hands  were  on  a 
level  with  the  gallery  floor,  his  feet  feeling  for  the  small 
foothold  which  might  be  hoped  for  on  the  capital  of  one 
of  the  wooden  pillars  at  the  entrance  from  the  outer  pas- 
sage. Finding  that,  he  cautiously  lowered  first  one  hand 
then  the  other,  swung  for  one  moment  in  mid-air,  ;hen 
let  himself  drop,  alighting  with  very  little  noise  on  the 
flags. 

Well  pleased  with  his  promptitude,  Randolph  1  t  down 
the  lantern  by  a  piece  of  cord,  and  from  his  va  tag 
ground  in  the  gallery,  watched  the  dark  figure  stealing 
noiselessly  to  the  other  end  of  the  hall,  and  disappearing 
into  the  room  where  the  meeting  of  the  fifth  of  October 
had  been  held. 

Once  fairly  set  to  work,  Hugo  moved  with  great  swift- 
ness and  precision ;  he  was  true  to  his  oath,  moreover, 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  1 45 

and  sought  thoroughly;  opened  the  book-case,  opened 
the  drawers  of  a  cabinet,  turned  over  papers,  and  briefly 
examined  them.  He  found  nothing,  however,  but  cookery 
receipts,  methods  of  clear  starching,  Latin  exercises,  and 
pencil-drawings,  evidently  the  possessions  of  the  daughters 
of  the  house.  In  the  lowest  drawer,  which  opened  with 
a  spring,  he  did  indeed  find  a  more  questionable-looking 
collection  of  sheets,  stitched  together,  closely  written,  and 
tied  with  red  tape,  but  on  opening  them  he  saw  written  in  a 
round,  clear  handwriting, — "Journal  of  Joyce  and  Evelyn 
Wharncliffe  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1682-3,  For  the  bene- 
fit of  the  descendants  of  the  Randolph  Wharncliffes." 

This  statement  so  bewildered  him,  and  he  was  so  horri- 
fied at  the  idea  of  touching  Joyce's  private  possessions, 
that  he  hastily  tied  the  papers  up  again.  Was  it  not  here, 
in  this  very  room,  that  he  had  seen  her  in  ghostly  array 
on  that  memorable  October  night  ?  What  if  she  should 
come  now — come  and  find  him  prowling  about  the  house 
like  a  thief !  Oh,  that  he  was  through  this  despicable 
task  !  Quickened  by  the  thought,  he  closed  the  drawer 
and  rapidly  surveyed  the  panels  of  the  wall,  while  all  the 
old  portraits  of  the  ancestors  glared  down  at  him,  follow- 
ing him  everywhere  with  their  staring  eyes.  At  the 
picture  of  Colonel  Wharncliffe,  and  at  the  picture  of  Joyce 
herself  he  actually  dared  not  look,  but  there  was  one  old 
man  near  the  door,  in  the  dress  of  a  sheriff,  and  an  Eliza- 
bethan ruff,  whose  eyes  he  could  not  evade ;  he  had  a 
long,  lean,  ghostly-looking  hand,  pointed  eternally  down- 
wards, and  it  seemed  to  Hugo's  excited  fancy  that  he 
indicated  with  scorn  the  place  for  which  he  deemed  this 
treacherous  guest  fit 

At  length  the  search  was  completed.  In  this  room 
there  was  nothing  that  would  serve  Randolph's  purpose. 
Opening  another  door,  Hugo  found  himself  in  the  with- 
drawing-room,  but  here  there  was  no  question  of  finding 
papers  ;  the  room  was  little  used,  and  was  stiffly  set 
round  with  high-backed  chairs  covered  with  beautiful 
crewel-work  on  a  black  ground.  There  was  not  a  single 
receptacle,  however,  which  could  by  any  possibility  have 
concealed  valuable  papers. 

Once  more  he  emerged  into  the  hall,  searched  a  Japan 
cabinet  which  stood  near  the  hearth,  signed  his  want  of 
of  success  to  Randolph,  and  went  to  seek  the  south 
paitor. 
10 


I46  /JV  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

And  here,  alas  !  success — the  success  he  so  little  desired 
• — awaited  him.  Just  as  he  was  leaving;  the  room,  he 
noticed  a  difference  in  some  of  the  panels,  and,  setting 
down  his  lantern,  he  tried  whether  they  would  move  ;  to 
his  dismay,  three  of  the  panels  yielded  to  his  touch  ;  they 
were  very  heavy  to  raise,  and  they  made  much  more  noise 
than  he  desired,  but  a  glimpse  of  books  and  papers  with- 
in forced  him  to  proceed.  At  length  he  had  raised  them 
some  way,  and,  bringing  the  lantern  close  to  the  opening, 
he  saw  a  deep  recess,  in  which  was  stored  on  one  side 
some  legal  documents,  with  which  he  did  not  meddle,  on 
the  other  a  pile  of  manuscripts,  which  upon  examination 
proved,  alas  !  to  have  direct  bearing  upon  the  political 
condition  of  the  country. 

Here  in  very  truth  was  evidence  against  Colonel  Wharn- 
cliffe,  for  in  those  times  to  conceive  of  remedies  against 
the  Stuart  tyranny  was  a  matter  of  life  and  death,  and 
people  could  not  air  their  favorite  theories,  or  proclaim 
themselves  Republicans  at  their  pleasure.  Hugo  could 
tell  by  the  merest  glance  at  the  contents  of  the  manu- 
script that  Colonel  Wharncliffe  would  be  placed  in  the 
greatest  peril  by  their  discovery. 

With  a  stifled  groan,  he  drew  the  papers  forth,  closed 
the  panels,  stole  once  more  into  the  hall.  Good  God ! 
why  had  he  chosen  life  ?  Why — oh,  why  had  he  not 
taken  the  truly  manly  course,  and  refused  to  have  any 
hand  in  this  treachery,  cost  what  it  might  ? 

Loathing  himself,  he  tied  the  papers  together  with  the 
cord  which  Randolph  lowered,  and  saw  them  drawn  up 
into  the  gallery.  The  cord  came  down  again,  this  time 
for  the  lantern.  He  let  this  be  drawn  up  too.  Then  he 
stood  alone  in  the  dark  hall,  feeling  as  though,  had  he 
but  had  the  means,  he  would  fain  have  hanged  himself. 

There  was  a  strange  beating  sound  in  the  hall  beside 
him.  How  now  !  Had  some  one  heard  him  ?  Should  he 
be  discovered  ?  In  an  agony  of  shame  he  shrank  back, 
but,  after  all,  it  was  only  the  noise  which  the  clock  made 
before  striking  one.  He  had  spent  just  one  hour,  but  in 
that  brief  space  he  had  committed  a  crime  the  effects  of 
which  would  last  throughout  his  life. 

Come  up,"  said  Randolph,  in  a  whisper.  "Why  lose 
this  time  ? " 

And  Hugo  did  begin  the  ascent,  but  either  hurried  too 
much  or  cared  too  little  for  his  own  safety ;  for  suddenly, 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  147 

while  with  one  hand  he  grasped  the  lower  part  of  the 
gallery  banisters,  his  feet  slid  from  their  insecure  resting- 
place,  and  he  fell  with  a  dull  thud  upon  the  white  flag- 
stones below. 

' '  You  fool  !  "  that  was  the  whisper  which  thrilled 
through  his  ears  the  instant  he  recovered  his  senses. 

It  stung  him  into  prompt  action  ;  he  got  up,  but  almost 
swooned,  so  frightful  was  the  pain. 

Randolph,  seeing  that  he  was  seriously  hurt,  looked 
round  in  despair  for  any  means  of  helping  him  ;  the 
lantern  cord  was  far  too  slender,  and  the  gallery  was  bare 
of  aught  else.  He  rushed  into  the  little  room  where 
honest  Peter  slept,  robbed  him  of  his  cloak,  knotted  it 
securely  to  his  own,  and  hung  them  down  through  the 
railings.  Then  came  a  breathless  interval.  Hugo 
struggled  gallantly,  but  every  instant  he  grew  more  omi- 
nously pale.  Randolph  saw,  with  something  bordering 
closely  on  remorse,  that  his  face  was  convulsed  with  pain. 
Would  the  cloaks  give  way  beneath  the  weight?  Luckily 
Hugo  was  but  light,  and  he  helped  himself  manfully.  It 
was  with  an  intensity  of  relief  that  at  last  Randolph 
grasped  the  cold  hands  in  his, — at  last,  with  infinite  pain, 
hauled  him  over  into  the  gallery. 

"What  have  you  done?  where  are  you  hurt?"  he 
asked,  apprehensively. 

But  Hugo  was  past  replying.  He  lay  stretched  on  the 
floor  of  the  gallery  as  one  dead — and  beside  him  lay  the 
fatal  papers. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
JOYCE'S  JOURNAL. 

You  cannot  barre  love  oute, 
Father,  mother,  and  you  alle ; 
For,  marke  mee,  love's  a  crafty  boy, 
And  his  limbes  are  very  smalle  ; 
He's  lighter  than  the  thistledoune, 
He's  fleeter  than  the  dove, 
His  voice  is  like  the  nightingale ; 
And  oh  I  beware  of  love. 

From  the  Seven  Starrs  of  Wittt,  1647, 

May,  1683. — Evelyn  and  I  have  found  but  little  to  re- 
cord in  our  journal  all  through  the  winter  months.     The 


148  Iff  THE  GOLDEtf  DAYS. 

news-letters  brought  us  word  that  in  London  the  persecu- 
tion of  Dissenters  waxed  severer,  a  special  effort  having 
been  made  against  them  as  the  time  drew  nigh  to  St. 
Thomas's  Day.  The  churchwardens  of  most  of  the  par- 
ishes named  them  to  the  Ecclesiastical  Courts,  procured 
their  excommunication.  This  my  father  saith  was  done 
that  they  might  be  incapacitated  from  voting  at  the  elec- 
tion of  common-councilmen  to  the  City  of  London. 
Thus  the  Tory  party  will  procure  such  a  common-council 
as  is  fit  for  their  turn,  and,  having  already  the  mayor 
and  most  of  the  Court  of  Aldermen  on  their  side,  they  will 
then  be  able  to  surrender  to  the  King  the  charter  of  the 
City  of  London. 

Since  the  sixth  of  October,  however,  no  persecution 
reached  us  here  at  Mondisfield.  But,  after  the  sacking  of 
the  barn,  no  more  meetings  were  held  there.  My  father 
deemed  it  wiser  for  us  to  attend  the  parish  church  in  the 
morning,  and  in  the  evening  a  few  of  those  who  have  the 
courage  to  run  the  risk  gather  together  in  the  hall,  where 
there  is  a  service  held.  We  girls  had  first  of  all  to  make 
heavy  red  curtains  for  the  two  great  windows  which  till 
now  had  never  had  either  curtain  or  shutter.  Frances  said 
she  felt  while  making  them  like  the  Israelite  women  who 
wove  the  hangings  for  the  Tabernacle.  And  it  is  certain 
that,  without  them,  we  should  never  have  felt  safe  in 
meeting  for  worship  with  over  the  proscribed  number. 
Even  now,  when  the  wind  sighs  on  winter  nights,  or 
when  the  creepers  beat  against  the  pane,  we  start  and 
tremble,  and  forget  the  prayer  or  the  sermon,  listening, 
heart  in  mouth,  to  the  sounds  without,  and  fearing  another 
of  those  terrible  incursions.  This  time  I  fear  me  there 
will  be  no  gallant  knight  to  warn  us  all  in  time  and  make 
escape  possible.  There  is  one  John  Hilton,  who,  they 
say,  is  very  widely  known  as  an  informer  against  conven- 
ticles. 

March  proved  a  hot  dry  month,  but  in  April  we  had 
naught  but  showers,  from  which  even  by  Betty's  birthday 
the  roads  had  not  recovered.  However,  the  day  itself — 
the  twelfth  of  May  was  fine  enough,  and  the  tenants  were 
not  to  be  kept  from  the  yearly  feast  by  a  little  mud.  All 
went  merrily,  and  we  had  a  gayer  time  than  usual,  as  be- 
fitted Betty's  coming  of  age.  But  to  me  the  chief  interest 
lay  in  those  two  foreign  musicians,  about  whom  I  feel  now 
doubly  certain  there  is  some  strange  story. 


Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  149 

The  morning  after  Betty's  birthday,  Evelyn  and  I  were 
roused  by  hearing  nurse  and  Margery,  talking  together  in 
the  passage  just  beyond  our  room. 

"  Here's  a  pretty  coil !  "  said  Margery,  my  mother's 
maid,  "the  young  foreigner  lad  hath  broke  three  of  his 
ribs." 

"  Broke  his  ribs,"  said  nurse,  '  and  how  did  he  do  that, 
pray  ?  I  suppose  they  got  drinking  and  quarrelling  last 
night.  That  is  the  end  of  feasting  and  dancing,  and 
fiddling,  and  I  pray  God  the  master  will  be  warned  and 
have  no  more  of  such  worldly  doings. " 

At  this  Evelyn  made  such  an  uproarious  sign  of  disagree- 
ment, that  we  lost  the  next  sentence,  but  by  and  by  we 
heard  Margery  say, 

"Ay,  ay,  it  was  old  Peter  told  me  about  it,  and  he  saith 
it  was  this  morning  he  broke  'em,  a-going  into  the  gallery 
to  fetch  his  lute,  he  slipped  on  the  polished  floor  not  being 
used  to  such.  They  have  laid  the  poor  chap  in  the  gallery. 
Peter  saith  he  heard  naught  till  the  one  who  played  the 
viol  shook  him  by  the  shoulder,  and  bid  him  rouse  up  and 
help,  and  then  going  to  the  gallery  he  saw  the  poor  lad 
lie  there  looking  as  white  as  a  clout." 

We  knew  well  enough  that  this  description  would  carry 
nurse  off,  and  that  we  should  hear  no  more,  for  nurse  loves 
waiting  on  sick  folks,  and  that  one  should  look  "  as  white 
as  a'  clout "  gives  him  a  firm  hold  on  her  sympathies. 

Therefore  we  dressed  as  speedily  as  might  be,  and  went 
downstairs  to  hear  more.  All  the  household  seemed  in 
confusion,  and  every  one  was  either  commiserating  the 
poor  German  lutist,  or  scolding  Tabitha  for  having  put  so 
much  bees-wax  on  the  floor.  At  length  my  father  came 
down  and  put  an  end  to  the  talk  by  summoning  us  all  to 
prayers,  which  he  said  must  not  be  foregone,  even  for  this 
unfortunate  accident.  We  gathered  just  as  usual  in  the 
hall,  and  my  father  read  and  prayed.  We  wondered 
much  if  the  poor  German  listened  up  in  his  gallery,  but 
none  of  us  liiced  to  look  up  there  to  see. 

After  breakfast  my  father  went  up  to  see  what  could  be 
done,  and  a  great  talk  arose  as  to  whether  he  had  best 
be  carried  to  St.  Edmondsbury  where  there  is  a  chirur- 
geon,  or  whether  it  would  be  best  for  him  to  lie  still,  and 
let  Lake  the  blacksmith  see  to  him.  Nurse  said  that  to 
move  him  would  be  dangerous,  and  that  Lake  was  skilful 
bone-setter,  and  would  know  what  was  amiss,  and 


150  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

both  Peter  and  the  other  German  counselled  him  to  lie 
where  he  was.  But  Karl — so  they  call  him — almost  put 
himself  into  a  fever,  they  say,  protesting  in  German  that 
he  must  be  taken  away,  and  not  left  behind  alone.  How- 
ever, all  was  of  no  avail,  his  father  fell  in  with  our  father's 
offer  of  hospitality,  and  Karl  is  to  stay  in  the  little  room 
off  the  gallery  whither  they  bore  him,  not  without  caus- 
ing him  some  pain.  Lake,  the  blacksmith,  said  it  would 
be  impossible  to  carry  him  down  those  steep  stairs  with- 
out great  risk,  since  in  the  fall  he  must  have  wounded  his 
lungs,  and  so  maybe  it  is  well  that  he  is  quartered  here, 
only  it  seems  to  make  him  so  very  unhappy.  Father  says 
we  must  do  all  we  can  to  teach  him  English,  that  he  may 
not  feel  so  lonely.  Nurse  says  he  bore  the  pain  of  the 
moving  without  once  flinching,  and  made  no  complaints 
of  Lake's  rough  handling.  But  I  think  he  must  be  well 
used  to  roughness,  for  his  father  seemed  quite  cruel  to  him, 
and,  though  none  could  tell  what  they  said  to  each  other 
in  that  strange  tongue,  yet  it  was  easy  to  see  that  even 
when  they  parted  he  was  denying  Karl's  earnest  entreaties, 
and  that  very  churlishly.  All  that  day  we  girls  were  as 
busy  as  could  be,  helping  the  servants  who  had  much  to 
do  in  cleaning  and  re-arranging  the  house  after  the  feast, 
and  also  in  waiting  on  poor  Karl  the  lutist.  They  all  seem 
glad  to  do  what  they  can  for  him,  however,  and  no  one 
complains,  for  he  asks  for  nothing,  never  murmurs,  thanks 
even  the  little  kitchen  wench  most  courteously  for  the  least 
service,  and  seems  only  anxious  to  give  as  little  trouble 
as  may  be. 

But  nurse  says  he  is  sorely  troubled,  and  when  she  is 
out  of  sight  she  hears  him  sigh  to  himself,  and  at  times 
groan.  Then  coming  back  to  him  she  asks  him  if  the  pain 
has  grown  worse,  and  he  just  shakes  his  head  and  turns 
his  face  to  the  wall,  and  makes  as  though  he  would  sleep. 
Poor  nurse  feels  quite  anxious  about  him.  She  saith  it  is 
worse  than  having  a  babe  sick,  for  they,  though  they  can- 
not speak,  can  at  least  tell  you  what  is  amiss  by  their  cries, 
but  this  poor  Karl  seems  to  shut  all  things  up  within  him- 
self, and  she  can  in  no  wise  understand  him. 

The  little  room  is  so  small  that  there  is  scarcely  room 
for  more  than  his  bed  and  a  table.  So  as  soon  as  might 
be  they  moved  him  by  day  into  the  gallery,  lifting  him 
with  great  care  that  he  might  not  be  shaken.  Then  my 
father  told  us  to  go  and  see  what  we  could  do  for  him, 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  151 

and  Evelyn  and  I  bethought  us  of  his  lute,  and  asked  him 
to  teach  us,  which  he  did  right  willingly.  So  strange  he 
looked  with  his  short  curly  hair,  and  his  face  all  pale  and 
suffering,  next  to  dear  rosy  Evelyn,  with  her  laughing  face 
and  merry  ways.  I  thought  they  would  have  made  a 
good  subject  for  a  painter  :  Karl  lying  there  on  a  mattress 
propped  up  with  pillows,  Evelyn  kneeling  beside  him  with 
the  lute,  her  little  plump,  brown  fingers  showing  so 
strangely  beside  his  long,  taper  white  ones,  and  the  after- 
noon sun  shining  in  upon  the  pictures  of  the  gallery  from 
one  of  the  hall  windows,  and  sending  a  wide  beam  of 
light  in  betwixt  the  banisters  of  the  gallery,  with  motes 
dancing  endlessly  in  it.  Watching  them  thus,  and  think- 
ing how  a  painter  would  put  them  on  his  canvas,  it  sud- 
denly came  over  me  why  I  always  fancied  that  I  must 
have  seen  Karl  before.  From  the  first  there  was  some- 
thing familiar  to  me  in  his  great  broad  forehead  and  dark 
gray  eyes.  And  now  I  saw  that  he  was  extremely  like 
the  young  gallant  to  whom  we  owe  so  much.  He  looks 
older  and  paler,  and  has  a  foreign  air,  but  he  is  like  him 
— so  much  like  that,  were  he  not  a  wandering  German 
minstrel,  I  should  deem  that  it  must  be  he  himself. 

The  next  afternoon  a  strange  thing  happened.  We  were 
sitting  beside  him,  and  had  finished  our  lesson  on  the  lute, 
and  Karl,  looking  somewhat  less  miserable  than  usual, 
was  telling  us  the  German  names  for  some  of  the  things 
around,  for  a  chair,  a  table,  and  so  forth,  when  Evelyn 
suggested  that  he  should  look  all  round  the  hall  and  tell 
us  the  names  of  everything  he  could  see.  We  began  with 
the  pictures.  The  parrot  picture  close  to  the  gallery,  the 
group  of  meat  and  fruit  and  eatables,  that  hangs  over  the 
hearth,  and  the  man  struggling  in  the  waves  with  the 
burning  ship  in  the  distance,  and  the  strange  figures  wait- 
ing to  receive  him  on  the  shore.  Karl  seemed  to  interest 
himself  in  this  picture,  and  we  read  him  the  motto  painted 
on  it, — 

"  More  than  ye  rocks  amiddys  the  raging  seas, 
Ye  constant  heart  no  danger  dreddys  nor  fearys." 

The  man's  face  is  earnest  and  full  of  a  strange  power. 
You  can  almost  see  him  struggling  on,  always  grave, 
steadfast,  and  untiring.  At  length  we  came  to  the  picture 
of  the  little  babe  above  the  door  of  the  north  parlor. 

Karl  taught  us  the  German  for  "  little  child,"  and  then 


152  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

vve  to  amuse  him,  told  him  the  tale  of  how  the  picture 
was  saved  from  the  great  fire  of  London,  and  how  it  was 
the  portrait  of  our  kinsman,  Hugo  Wharncliffe,  brother  to 
the  Randolph  Wharncliffe,  who  would  one  day  turn  us 
out  of  our  dear  home.  And  we  told  him  of  our  journal 
which  we  were  writing  for  the  "descendants."  Now, 
what  happened  to  Karl  at  that  precise  moment  I  never 
could  tell.  Perchance  it  was  merely  that  some  movement 
hurt  him  suddenly,  but  a  most  terrible  look  came  over  his 
face,  and  we  thought  he  would  have  swooned.  Evelyn 
would  have  hurried  away  in  search  of  nurse,  had  he  not 
signed  to  her  to  sit  down  again,  and  presently  he  seemed 
to  recover  himself,  though  he  continued  very  pale  all  that 
afternoon.  Nor  can  I  forget  the  strange,  doubtful,  troubled 
look  he  gave  me — as  though  he  would  fain  speak  but  could 
not.  We  must  indeed  do  all  in  our  power  to  teach  him 
English,  but  he  doth  not  greatly  care  to  learn,  at  least  so 
it  seems  to  me.  Tis  passing  strange,  for  in  his  face  is 
always  the  look  of  one  who  longs  to  say  something,  yet 
cannot. 

My  father  is  much  interested  in  him,  and  wishes  he 
could  converse  with  him  ;  but  that  of  course  is  difficult, 
indeed,  well-nigh  impossible.  Moreover,  Karl  seems  to 
shrink  from  him,  almost  to  fear  him,  which  is  strange, 
seeing  how  kind  and  gentle  our  father  is  with  him.  What 
he  seems  to  like  best  is  that  nurse,  and  Evelyn,  and  I 
should  sit  in  the  gallery  in  the  afternoon  and  go  on  with 
our  talking  and  reading  just  as  though  he  were  not  there. 
I  am  sure  he  listens  to  the  reading,  he  lies  so  still,  with 
his  face  always  towards  us,  and  with  a  look  of  content 
upon  it  which  is  rarely  there  at  other  times.  We  have 
read  all  through  Mr.  Bunyan's  new  book,  TJie  Holy  War, 
and  also  for  the  hundredth  time  I  should  think,  The  Pil- 
grim's Progress,  besides  several  of  Mr.  Shakspere's  plays, 
which  my  father  thought  would  be  sure  to  interest  him  if 
he  were  able  to  understand  them  well  enough,  and  this 
he  seems  to  do. 

1 5th  of  June,  1683. 

No  entries  in  our  journal  all  these  weeks,  but  indeed, 
we  have  been  almost  too  busy  to  write,  and  when  there 
have  been  spare  moments  I  scarce  wished  to  set  down 
what  could  hardly  interest  the  "descendants."  For,  in- 
deed, Karl  has  taken  up  all  our  thoughts.  My  mother 
Says  it  is  very  natural  that  he  should  be  less  shy  and  un« 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS-  153 

comfortable  with  nurse  and  with  us  children  than  <vith 
my  father  or  herself.  She  says  it  is  because  he  is  of  dif- 
ferent station  that  he  doth  not  feel  comfortable  in  their 
presence,  and  that  he  looks  upon  me  just  as  a  child,  and 
so  does  not  feel  embarrassed  by  the  difference  in  our  birth. 
It  is  true  all  the  world  looks  upon  me  as  a  child  still,  and 
I  am  glad  it  should  be  so,  if  to  be  counted  as  a  grown 
woman  would  make  Karl  afraid  of  me. 

I  understand  him  less  than  ever,  and  I  am  not  quite 
sure  that  he  always  does  listen  to  the  reading,  as  I  thought 
he  did.  Three  times  of  late,  when  I  have  looked  up  sud- 
denly from  the  book  to  ask  him  some  question,  I  have 
found  his  eyes  fixed  so  strangely  on  my  face,  and  at  one 
time,  though  I  read  the  saddest  part  of  the  tale,  there  were 
his  eyes  shining  with  a  sort  of  happy  look  that  I  never 
saw  in  eyes  before.  It  is  true  it  passed  away  very 
swiftly,  leaving  him  as  usual  grave  and  troubled ;  but 
what  business  had  he  to  be  looking  like  that  when  Evelyn 
and  nurse  were  ready  to  weep  over  the  death  of  the  hero  ? 
I  cannot  get  Karl  out  of  my  thoughts  ;  he  puzzles  me 
greatly.  But  methinks  it  were  perhaps  wiser  to  write  no 
more  of  him,  and  therefore  I  shall  shut  up  the  journal  in 
our  drawer  in  the  north  parlor  until  he  has  gone,  which 
is  like  to  be  soon,  since  he  is  getting  well. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

CONFESSION. 

Mistake  no  more  :  I  am  not  Licio, 

Nor  a  musician  as  I  seem  to  be ; 

But  one  that  scorns  to  live  in  this  disguise. 

Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

VERY  strangely  had  that  long  month  passed  as  far  as 
Hugo  was  concerned.  He  alternated  between  a  despair 
at  the  thought  of  the  certain  misery  which  must  fall  upon 
this  peaceful  household  when  Randolph  had  disclosed  his 
secret  and  a  feverish  happiness  caused  by  Joyce's  presence. 
To  lie  there  helplessly,  able  to  watch  the  beautiful  family 
life  going  on  around  him,  and  ever  with  the  conscious* 
ness  that  his  own  act  would  soon  shatter  this  happy 
home,  was  almost  more  than  he  could  endure.  And  yet, 
painful  as  it  was,  the  sight  of  that  home-life  fascinated  him. 
He  had  never  known  real  family  life  ;  he  had  no  concep 


154  Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

tion  of  what  a  pure,  genial  home  might  be.  The  simple 
country  customs,  the  common  interests  so  keenly  shared, 
the  home  loyalty,  the  loving  pride  in  each  other's  suc- 
cesses, the  pure  laughter,  the  innocent  jests,  the  girlish 
merriment,  and  the  games  into  which  no  bitterness  en- 
tered, all  these  were  new  to  him.  Again  the  religious 
element  underlying  all  struck  him  greatly.  The  daily 
assembling  of  the  household  in  the  hall,  the  slow,  solemn 
reading  of  the  chapter  from  the  Bible,  the  everyday  lan- 
guage of  the  prayer  offered  up  by  Colonel  Wharncliffe, 
and  afterwards  the  repeating  of  a  verse  by  every  child, 
from  Elizabeth,  whose  coming-of-age  festival  had  been 
the  cause  of  all  his  trouble,  to  little  ten-year-old  Evelyn. 

Still  more  impressive  were  the  Sunday  evening  services, 
which  he  watched  very  curiously  from  his  gallery. 

He  was  now  almost  well,  and  was  allowed  to  move 
about  a  little.  If  Randolph  did  not,  as  he  had  promised, 
either  come  for  him  or  send  for  him,  he  was  determined 
to  leave  Mondisfield  in  a  few  days'  time,  and  try  to  make 
his  way  back  to  Sir  Peregrine  Blake's. 

It  was  Sunday  evening,  the  rythofjune.  Hugo  was 
sitting  as  usual  in  his  musician's  gallery,  and  looking  down 
to  the  familiar  hall,  with  its  white-flagged  floor,  which 
had  served  him  so  churlishly,  its  carved  oaken-settle  and 
stately  high-backed  chairs  set  at  intervals  round  the  wall. 
At  the  table  in  the  middle  sat  Colonel  Wharncliffe,  turn- 
ing over  the  leaves  of  the  great  Bible.  Benches  were  set 
for  the  few  outsiders  who  ventured  to  the  service,  and  for 
the  servants,  while  near  the  hearth  sat  Mrs.  Wharncliffe 
and  her  daughters,  Joyce  in  her  customary  corner  close 
to  the  tall  clock.  The  evenings  were  now  so  light,  that 
to  have  drawn  the  red  curtains  would  but  have  excited 
greater  notice,  and  the  little  congregation  met  in  some 
fear,  keeping  ever  a  sentinel  at  the  window  to  warn  them 
of  the  approach  of  any  danger.  It  seemed  to  Hugo  that 
Joyce  was  the  most  nervous,  and  yet  the  most  courageous 
of  the  party.  He  used  to  watch  her  very  narrowly  dur- 
ing those  services.  Tke  alert,  watchful,  anxious  look  on 
her  sweet,  childish  face  touched  him  greatly. 

The  hour  for  service  had  struck,  and  there  was  the 
customary  sound  under  his  gallery  of  the  trampling  of 
thick  boots  as  the  country  folk  made  their  way  from  the 
kitchen  to  the  hall.  But  on  this  Sunday,  instead  of  tak- 
ing their  places  as  usual,  the  Nonconformists  sioi;;!  :;:  a 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  155 

group,  and  Hurst,  the  gardener,  went  across  to  Colonel 
Wharncliffe. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  he  said,  quite  loud  enough  for  all 
present  to  hear.  "If  you  please,  sir,  a  special  post  has 
been  through  the  village,  they  say,  and  he  has  brought 
news  of  a  plot  to  kill  the  King,  which  they  do  say  was 
planned  by  the  Whigs,  sir." 

Colonel  Wharncliffe  looked  up  quickly. 

' '  To  kill  the  King  ?  "  he  said,  incredulously. 

"Ay,  sir,"  replied  Hurst;  "to  kill  the  King  and  the 
duke,  too,  sir." 

"Who  heard  the  news  at  first  hand  ?  "  asked  the  colonel 
looking  from  one  to  another  of  the  little  group. 

"  I,  sir,"  said  the  village  cobbler,  stepping  forward. 

"And  I,  sir,"  repeated  another  villager,  younger  and 
more  impulsive-looking. 

"What  was  the  exact  news?"  said  Colonel  Wharn- 
cliffe ;  and  Hugo  from  his  gallery  tried  hard  to  read  his 
grave  face,  but  could  not. 

"The  post  brought  word,  sir,  that  all  London  was  in 
alarm  at  the  revealin'  of  a  plot  to  kill  the  King,  sir." 

"And  the  Duke  of  York,"  added  the  cobbler. 

"Ay,  and  the  duke,  too.  The  plot  was  revealed  by 
two  brothers,  sir  ;  at  least  they  say  the  younger  was 
forced  to  it  by  his  brother  against  his  will. " 

Hugo  gasped,  and  clutched  at  the  railings  for  support. 

"  Did  the  post  mention  any  names  ? "  said  the  colonel. 

"Ay,  sir.  Keeling  was  the  name  of  the  two  brothers; 
and  they  say  the  eldest  he  was  a  salter  in  the  City,  and 
thought  to  take  a  leaf  out  of  Dr.  Gates'  book." 

At  this  Hugo  breathed  more  freely.  There  had  then 
been  others  reluctantly  forced  into  this  hateful  work  of 
playing  the  spy,  and  he,  at  any  rate,  was  not  responsible 
for  the  general  revelation.  But,  alas  !  he  was  responsible 
for  the  danger  that  would  now  more  than  ever  threaten 
Colonel  Wharncliffe. 

"  And  when  was  the  plot  to  have  been  carried  out-?" 
said  the  colonel.  ' '  Said  he  naught  of  that  ? " 

"Ay,  sir,  that  he  did,"  said  both,  in  a  breath.  "The 
King  was  to  have  been  stopped  on  his  way  back  from 
Newmarket,  sir,  in  a  narrow  part  of  the  highway,  nigh 
upon  Mr.  Rumbold's  house  at  Rye." 

"  And  both  were  to  have  been  killed,  sir,"  said  the  cob- 
bler, ' '  both  the  King  and  his  brother,  and  they  do  say  it 


156  Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

would  have  been  done  in  the  spring  but  for  the  fire  at 
Newmarket,  and  the  King  going  back  sooner  than  ex- 
pected. " 

"And  some  say  that  it  was  but  put  off  till  next  Queen 
Elizabeth's  day,"  chimed  in  the  younger  man. 

"Said  he  naught  of  those  arrested?  Named  he  any 
well-known  men  ?  " 

"No  names,  sir,  but  he  spoke  of  arrests  that  were  be- 
ing made,  and  said  that  warrants  were  being  issued 
whereby  all  suspected  of  not  favoring  the  King  might  be 
had  up." 

Colonel  Wharncliffe  seemed  to  meditate  for  a  few  mo- 
ments ;  then,  looking  up  once  more,  he  thanked  the  men 
for  their  information,  and  said  they  would  now  proceed 
with  the  usual  service. 

The  excitement  soon  died  away,  and  a  great  calm  fell 
upon  the  little  assembly  as  Colonel  Whanicliffe  read  of 
the  three  men  who  would  not  bow  down  to  the  great 
image  which  Nebuchadnezzar  the  King  had  set  up,  and 
of  how,  walking  through  the  furnace  itself,  they  found 
gain  instead  of  loss.  After  that  he  prayed  long  and 
earnestly  for  all  those  who  might  be  in  danger  through 
the  news  of  this  reported  plot ;  in  his  prayer  was  nothing 
agitated  or  even  anxious, — he  was  too  calm  and  too  good 
a  man  to  be  easily  disturbed  by  evil  tidings. 

But  in  the  gallery  a  storm  raged.  No  calm  could  come 
to  Hugo  in  his  present  state.  Never  even  in  all  these 
long  weeks  of  shame  and  misery,  had  he  suffered  so 
acutely  as  now.  The  very  sight  of  the  peaceful  assem- 
bly down  below  seemed  to  accentuate  his  wretchedness. 
How  little  they  dreamed  that  this  was  their  last  Sunday  ! 
How  little  they  dreamed  that  foes  were  even  now  seek- 
ing the  colonel's  life  !  And  he  had  brought  it  all  upon 
them, — he,  the  guest,  the  kinsman,  he  to  whom  all  kind- 
ness and  hospitality  had  been  shown,  he  had  betrayed 
them. 

Loathing  himself,  he  looked  back  in  a  sort  of  amaze  to 
think  that  his  own  act  could  have  brought  him  into  such 
a  hateful  position.  Could  it  indeed  be  that  he  had  ever 
had  the  chance  of  doing  otherwise!  It  had  not  seemed 
in  his  power  to  escape  from  that  first  stealthy  visit  to 
Mondisfield.  Had  it  really  been  in  his  power?  Had  he, 
through  lack  of  some  perception,  some  thought,  some 
prompt  assertion  of  principle,  taken  the  irrevocable  step 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  157 

which  must  lead  to  a  whole  chain  of  results  of  which 
he  had  never  dreamed  ?  And  yet  again  and  again  there 
had  been  moments  when  he  might  have  turned  back. 
He  might  have  disobeyed  Randolph,  and  refused  to 
follow  him  from  Longbridge  Hall  on  an  expedition  which 
from  the  first  aroused  his  suspicions.  He  might  have 
died  the  death  of  a  martyr  in  that  very  gallery,  and  pur- 
chased eternal  honor  instead  of,  as  now,  eternal  shame. 
And  now  he  lay  in  this  furnace  of  pain,  the  fiery  furnace 
which  he  had  kindled  for  himself,  and  he  knew  that  hell 
itself  could  contain  nothing  more  frightful  than  this  look- 
ing back  on  the  past  with  the  full  consciousness  of  his 
failure,  and  the  full  consciousness  of  what  that  fault  of 
his  was  bringing  upon  others.  He  was  in  the  cleansing 
fires,  and  those  in  the  hall  below  were  in  the  heavenly 
calm  of  communion  with  the  Unseen,  wrapping  them 
round  from  all  the  cares  and  troubles  of  the  outer  world. 

The  sight  of  them  took  him  back  to  that  Sunday  morn- 
ing,— a  lifetime  ago  it  felt  to  him  now, — when  he  had 
seen  them  in  the  barn.  The  old  minister  had  spoken 
words  which  he  had  never  forgotten,  perhaps  because  at 
the  time  he  had  so  little  understood  them.  "Men  can 
rise  above  the  circumstances  in  which  they  are  placed. " 
He  had  not  risen  ;  he  had  been  dragged  down,  was  even 
now  being  dragged  irresistibly  down  by  Randolph's  strong- 
er will.  But  "men  can  rise."  That  was  for  him  in  very 
truth  a  gospel.  From  the  perception  of  all  that  was  in- 
volved in  that  "can"  he  was  not  long  in  passing  to  the 
"  I  will"  And  above  the  grave  Puritian  discourse,  above 
the  devil's  voices  which  mocked  him  with  his  own  weak- 
ness, and  with  the  dangers  of  the  way,  there  floated  in  to 
him  the  anthem  which  he  had  heard  from  his  childhood  at 
the  Temple  Church — "  I  will  arise  and  go  to  my  Father." 

Then  slowly  and  by  degrees  his  duty  began  to  dawn 
upon  him.  The  first  step  in  the  upward  progress  taken 
revealed  the  second.  It  was  a  hard  one.  Nevertheless, 
he  took  it  resolutely,  manfully.  By  this  time  the  con- 
gregation were  beginning  to  disperse.  Hugo  bent  for- 
ward, caught  Joyce's  eye,  and  deliberately  signed  to  her 
to  come  up  to  the  gallery.  Then  raising  himself,  he  made 
his  way  with  some  difficulty  into  the  little  room  beyond, 
and  there  awaited  her. 

She  came  in  quickly,  with  an  exclamation  of  surp-ise 
and  a  smile  of  eager  congratulation. 


158  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

"  Why,  Karl  !  have  you  walked  in  here?  Tis  the  firs? 
time  you  have  walked  alone  !  " 

He  was  standing  beside  the  window  which  looked  out 
at  the  back  of  the  house  and  right  down  the  oak  avenue, 
where  he  had  last  walked  with  Randolph  and  Peter. 

"  The  first  time  you  have  walked  alone  !  "  Her  words 
seemed  to  him  to  bear  a  deeper  meaning  than  she  had  in- 
tended ;  he  smiled  a  very  little,  even  in  the  midst  of  his 
pain. 

But  Joyce  was  quick  at  reading  faces,  and  she  saw  at 
once  that  he  was  suffering. 

"You  are  worse,  Karl.  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  she  said, 
a  sudden  terror  taking  possession  of  her  as  the  pain  in  his 
face  deepened. 

"I  begged  you  to  come,"  he  began,  speaking  quickly 
and  yet  forcibly  ;  "I  desired  to  see  you,  that  I  might  con- 
fess a  grave  wrong  which  I  fear  will  injure  your  father." 

"Karl!  "she  exclaimed,  trembling,  "you  speak  Eng- 
lish ?  You  knew  it  all  the  time? " 

"Call  me  not  Karl !  "  he  said,  speaking  with  an  effort 
"That  name  must  be  forever  hateful  to  me.  Joyce,  Cou- 
sin Joyce !  I  am  no  musician,  no  German,  I  am  your 
miserable  kinsman,  Hugo  Wharncliffe." 

"You  are  Hugo  Wharncliffe!"  she  repeated,  with  a 
look  of  utter  bewilderment. 

"Ay  ;  would  to  heaven  I  were  not !  "  he  said  passion- 
ately. "Would  to  heaven  I  were  not" 

He  turned  away,  trying  to  hide  from  her  the  rush  of 
shame  and  anguish  that  overwhelmed  him. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Presently  her  voice  fell  up- 
on his  ear.  She  spoke  very  gravely,  very  gently,  and 
there  was  in  her  tone  a  curious  touch  of  sadness  as  though 
she  knew  that  behind  this  strange  confession  there  lay 
some  grievous  wrong. 

"Cousin  Hugo," — she  just  touched  his  arm — "Cousin 
Hugo,  you  must  sit  down,  or  you  will  overtire  yourself." 

He  obeyed  her,  being,  in  fact  scarcely  able  to  stand 
longer. 

Again  there  was  silence.     At  last  Joyce  spoke. 

"Why  did  you  seek  to  injure  my  father?"  she  said, 
struggling  hard  to  repress  the  indignation  that  raged  with- 
in her. 

"  God  knows  I  did  not  seek  to  injure  him,"  said  Hugo. 

"Ahl" — a  light  broke  upon  her — "it  was  then   that 


JN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  159 

other,  the  one  whom  we  called  your  father !  Ah  1 1  knew 
— I  knew  from  the  first  that  he  was  hard  and  bad  and 
cruel.  And  I  might  have  known  that  you  would  not  have 
done  it" 

"Nay,"  he  said,  "nay,  blame  him  not.  If  his  was  the 
brain  to  conceive,  mine  was  the  arm  to  execute.  Joyce, 
Joyce,  have  pity  on  me  !  Hate  me  not ;  hate  the  crime, 
but  for  heaven's  sake  do  not  hate  me  !  " 

"  How  could  I  hate  you?"  she  exclaimed.  "I  hate 
you  ? — I  ? " 

Her  sweet  eyes  met  his  fully  ;  it  was  all  he  could  do  to 
strangle  the  passionate  words  of  love  which  rose  to  his 
lips.  But  this  was  no  fit  moment  to  speak  ;  with  an  effort 
which  seemed  to  rend  his  very  heart,  he  turned  from 
thoughts  of  Joyce  and  of  love,  to  the  torturing  thought  of 
his  crime,  and  the  tardy  reparation  for  which  he  must  strive. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  he  said,  almost  sternly.  "My  brother 
brought  me  to  this  house  last  October.  We  overlooked  a 
meeting  which  was  being  held  here.  That  assured  him 
of  one  bit  of  evidence  against  your  father.  He  brought 
me  again  a  month  since,  to  search  for  surer  evidence  still. 
We  found  ourselves  locked  into  this  part  of  the  house. 
The  only  way  to  search  the  premises  was  to  climb  over 
the  gallery,  and  so  into  the  hall.  He  bade  me  do  it — I 
refused.  Then  he  threatened  to  shoot  me  on  the  spot, 
and — I  yielded." 

His  voice  sank,  he  writhed  under  the  remembrance, 
writhed  under  the  torture  of  confessing  his  weakness  to 
Joyce. 

"And  you  found  something? "  said  the  girl. 

' '  Ay,  I  found  papers  which  I  fear  will  make  it  go  hard  with 
your  father.  The  greater  number  my  brother  bore  away 
with  him.  But  one  book  of  manuscripts  was  too  large  for 
him  to  carry,  and  he  left  it  with  me  till  his  return. " 

He  unlocked  the  case  belonging  to  his  lute  and  showed 
her  a  book  secreted  there.  "This  at  least  I  can  restore," 
he  said,  "  this  confession  I  can  at  least  make  ;  your  father 
may  yet  find  safety  in  flight,  and  by  all  that  is  holy,  I 
swear  that  I  will  never  give  evidence  against  him." 

Joyce  did  not  in  the  least  realize  all  that  this  promise 
would  involve,  but  there  was  that  in  Hugo's  manner 
which  made  the  tears  rush  to  her  eyes. 

"  And  you  would  have  me  bear  these  tidings  to  my 
father  ?  "  she  said,  gently. 


!6o  *N  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

He  signed  an  assent  and  turned  away,  too  miserable  to 
speak  another  word. 

Joyce  stood  still  for  a  minute  thinking. 

' '  Cousin  Hugo,"  she  said  presently,  ' '  tell  me  one  thing  : 
I  think  it  must  have  been  you  who  fought  that  bad  man 
last  October  outside  the  park  ;  I  think — I  feel  sure  it  was 
you  who  warned  us  that  Sunday  in  the  barn.  Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"God  bless  you  for  remembering  !  "  he  exclaimed  pas- 
sionately. And  turning,  he  hastily  raised  her  hand  to  his 
lips  and  kissed  it. 

"Be  not  too  miserable,"  she  said  ;  "be  glad  at  least  in 
this,  that  this  has  happened  with  our  father  rather  than 
with  one  of  harder  nature.  Oh  !  he  will  be  very  good  to 
you,  he  will  bear  no  malice." 

And  with  this  comfort  she  left  the  room,  while  Hugo 
flung  himself  down  on  the  bed,  well  aware  that  the  kins- 
man's forgiveness  would  be  worse  to  bear  than  blows- 
He  waited  long  in  an  agony  of  shame  and  remorse. 
The  room  was  now  almost  dark,  and  in  the  soft  gray  of 
the  midsummer  sky  he  could  see  stars  shining  out  one  by 
one.  Presently  the  door  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase  was 
opened,  and  some  one  came  up  bearing  a  lamp.  He  list- 
ened apprehensively.  It  was  a  man's  tread,  it  was  doubt- 
less Colonel  Wharncliffe.  Burying  his  face  in  the  pillow. 
he  waited  motionless  while  the  steps  drew  nearer  and 
nearer.  Could  he  now  have  felt  the  cold  muzzle  of  Ran- 
dolph's  pistol  once  more  at  his  head,  he  would  have  wel- 
comed it  and  courted  death. 

He  heard  his  kinsman  enter  and  close  the  door  behind 
him,  then  he  also  closed  the  half-glass  door  which  led  in- 
to the  gallery,  then  he  sat  down  his  lamp  and  drew  a  chair 
to  the  bedside. 

Still  Hugo  did  not  move  a  muscle. 

"My  daughter  Joyce  has  delivered  your  message  to 
me,"  he  began,  in  his  grave  voice. 

A  sort  of  shudder  passed  through  the  form  on  the  bed. 

"My  poor  lad,"  continued  the  colonel,  "I  am  right 
grieved  for  you.  Your  mother,  a  noble  lady  whom  I 
loved  well,  would  have  been  sore  at  heart,  could  she 
have  foreseen  this  day. " 

An  uncontrollable  sob  escaped  Hugo.  Such  a  reference 
at  such  a  time  was  almost  more  than  he  could  endure. 

"  Do  not  for  one  moment  think  that  I  blame  you, "said 
She  colonel  "God  forbid  that  I  should  judge  you  in 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  161 

aught.  And  indeed  I  can  well  perceive  how  cruelly  your 
circumstances  made  for  your  fall.  I  blame  you  not,  I  will 
never  blame  you." 

"Kill  me  not  with  kindness  !"  said  Hugo,  starting  up 
and  revealing  his  haggard,  agitated  face.  ' '  Rather  blame 
me,  for  I  am  to  be  blamed." 

"Nay,"  said  the  colonel,  gravely.  "  Christ  permitted 
us  not  to  rebuke  those  who,  having  offended  against  us, 
have  repented.  For  such  there  must  be  naught  but  for- 
giveness. Why,  my  poor  lad,  who  would  be  benefited 
by  blame  or  rebuke  ?  Already  you  know  full  well  all  that 
your  wrong-doing  will  bring  to  pass.  What  need  of 
words  of  mine?" 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  silence.  Hugo,  keenly 
conscious  of  the  contrast  between  this  man's  noble  gen- 
erosity and  his  own  treachery,  humbled  to  the  dust  by 
the  perception  of  his  own  meanness,  was  yet  irresistibly 
attracted  to  his  kinsman.  We  hate  those  whom  we  injure 
just  so  long  as  we  do  not  repent  of  the  injury.  But  the 
forgiver  by  his  very  divineness  attracts. 

"If  you  will  only  conceal  yourself,"  began  Hugo, 
eagerly.  "There  is  yet  one  thing  that  I  can  do,  to  make 
some  sort  of  reparation,  though  that  indeed  is  too  great  a 
word  for  such  slight  amends." 

"Joyce  mentioned  to  me  something  of  the  sort.  She 
says  that  you  propose  not  to  give  evidence  against  me." 

"  That  is  the  least  I  can  do,"  said  Hugo,  quickly. 

"I  could  not  let  you  make  such  a  sacrifice,"  said  the 
colonel.  "You  are  very  young,  you  hardly  realize  what 
it  would  involve." 

"Sir,"  said  Hugo,  "sacrifice  is  hardly  a  suitable  word 
as  between  yourself  and  me.  Torture  me  not  by  refusing 
to  accept  the  only  amends  in  my  power.  It  is  no  ques- 
tion of  sacrifice,  but  of  plain  duty." 

"Nobly  spoken,"  said  the  colonel.  "Yet  remember 
that  this  cburse  will  bring  you  into  certain  trouble.  You 
will  incur  imprisonment,  and  our  prisons  are  such  hells 
on  earth  that  I  shrink  from  the  thought  of  such  a  thing 
for  you." 

"Think  not  of  me!"  broke  in  Hugo,  passionately. 
"  Why  will  you  speak  of  naught  else?  I  am  outside  the 
question  altogether.  Think  of  your  own  safety,  of  your 
wife,  of  your  children.  Escape  or  hide  while  there  is  yet 
time." 
IS 


1 62  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

"You  speak  your  innermost  heart  in  all  truth  ?  "  ques« 
tioned  the  colonel. 

"  Yes,  a  thousand  times  over,"  said  Hugo.  "Think  of 
them,  and  let  me  bear  the  natural  consequences  of  what 
I  have  done.  Bring  hither  a  Bible  and  I  will  swear  to 
you  never  to  breathe  aught  against  you." 

"Nay/' said  the  colonel,  "an  oath  is  no  more  sacred 
than  a  promise.  I  will  trust  your  word.  I  hold  not  in 
all  things  with  the  Quakers,  but  yet  it  seems  to  me  that 
the  reckless  swearing  of  these  days  imports  an  element 
of  profaneness  even  into  an  oath  taken  with  due  solemnity. 
I  will  trust  your  word." 

"Then,"  said  Hugo,  firmly,  "I  promise  that  I  wil{ 
never  give  evidence  against  you.  I  thank  you  for  your 
trust. " 

He  fell  back  again  on  the  bed,  exhausted  by  all  that  he 
had  passed  through,  but  yet  feeling  already  a  lessening  of 
the  intolerable  load  which  had  for  so  long  weighed  upon 
him. 

They  fell  to  talking  of  the  news  from  London,  and  the 
;olonel  explained  to  Hugo  his  views,  which  were  almost 
dentical  with  those  of  Sydney.  Of  the  plot  to  murder 
Jie  King  and  the  duke  he  had  heard  not  a  single  word, 
and,  since  plots  were  in  those  times  so  often  the  mere 
fabrication  of  the  enemies  of  the  accused,  he  was  inclined 
to  discredit  it  altogether. 

The  two  talked  far  into  the  night,  Hugo  telling  his 
kinsman  of  his  acquaintance  with  Colonel  Sydney,  of  his 
stay  at  Penshurst,  of  his  London  life,  and  of  his  relations 
towards  his  brother.  The  colonel  grew  more  and  more 
interested  in  a  character  which  seemed  to  him  so  full  of 
promise,  and  so  cruelly  fettered  by  its  surroundings.  A 
youth  who  had  kept  himself  from  all  grossness  in  the 
court  of  King  Charles  was  indeed  almost  a  phenomenon. 
And  there  was  no  mistaking  Hugo's  genuine  purity  of 
heart  and  life. 

Colonel  Wharncliffe  was  in  truth  almost  diverted  from 
the  thought  of  his  own  peril  by  the  perception  of  the  great 
difficulties  which  lay  before  this  son  of  his  old  friend.  For 
himself,  he  was  an  old  soldier,  and  had  lived  through 
many  dangers.  Moreover,  he  was  constitutionally  brave. 
It  is  not  always  easy,  however,  for  brave  people  to  be 
brave  for  others,  and  he  shrank  not  a  little  from  the 
thought  of  all  the  suffering  which  lay  before  his  young 


JN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  163 

kinsman,  who  after  all  was  more  sinned  against  than 
sinning. 

"  I  have  warned  the  village  cobbler  to  let  me  know  at 
once  should  any  suspicious-looking  party  arrive  in  the 
village.  Therefore,  if  your  brother,  with  any  officer 
capable  of  making  an  arrest,  arrives  by  that  road,  we  shall 
be  warned  in  time. " 

"You  will  not  make  your  escape  at  once?"  asked 
Hugo. 

"  There  is  no  need,"  said  the  colonel.  "  I  have  a  sure 
hiding-place  close  at  hand.  Precisely  where  it  is  I  will 
not  inform  you.  in  order  that,  if  put  to  the  proof,  you 
may  with  truth  deny  all  knowledge  of  my  movements. 
And  now  I  will  bid  you  good-night ;  had  I  but  found  be- 
fore that  you  were  my  kinsman,  you  should  have  had 
the  guest-chamber.  After  all,  though,  I  doubt  whether 
we  could  have  safely  moved  you. " 


CHAPTER  XVI 

REPARATION. 

Love  give  me  strength, 

And  strength  shall  help  afford. 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 

LEFT  once  more  to  himself,  Hugo  still  greatly  agitated 
fcf  all  he  had  suffered  that  evening,  found  sleep  impossible. 
Tme,  even  in  the  midst  of  his  shame  and  perplexity,  he 
already  felt  something  of  the  relief  of  confession,  but  with 
the  relief  there  was  a  bewildering  consciousness  that  this 
was  only  a  brief  pause,  a  sort  of  breathing  space,  betwixt 
his  confession  and  the  certain  results  of  his  wrong-doing. 
Another  day,  a  few  hours,  and  he  might  be  a  prisoner, 
with  another  man's  life  under  the  protection  of  his  strength 
of  purpose.  A  few  hours,  and  he  might  be  borne  away 
from  Mondisfield  forever  !  A  few  hours,  and  he  might 
have  looked  his  last  on  Joyce  !  No  wonder  that  sleep 
refused  to  come  to  his  excited  brain.  Wearily  he  tossed 
to  and  fro  on  his  pallet  bed,  weighing  the  probabilities  of 
the  future,  alternating  between  wild  hopes  and  ghastly 
fears,  and,  worse  than  all,  haunted  by  the  thought  that 
Randolph's  will  might  a  second  time  overpower  his,  a 


tf4  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

second  time  make  him  a  traitor  to  his  conscience.  Then 
he  wandered  back  again  to  thoughts  of  Algernon  Sydney, 
and  he  wondered  whether  it  would  be  possible  to  write  to 
him,  tell  him  the  whole  truth,  and  ask  his  advice.  Often 
in  these  wretched  weeks  of  waiting  he  had  pondered  the 
feasibility  of  such  a  plan,  but  had  always  been  debarred 
by  the  impossibility  of  not  writing  such  a  letter  as  would 
betray  his  real  character,  and  prove  him  not  to  be  Karl, 
the  German  lutist 

And  now,  alas !  another  obstacle  had  arisen.  He 
might  write  a  letter  in  his  own  character,  but  to  do  so 
would  perchance  involve  Colonel  Sydney  in  his  disgrace. 
At  all  costs  he  must  not  risk  that,  he  must  die  in  silence 
rather  than  bring  him  into  danger.  If  indeed  he  were  not 
already  in  danger,  as  was  only  too  probable. 

That  he  should  escape  when  all  the  Whigs  were  sus- 
pected, that  he  should  be  allowed  fair  play  when  there 
was  a  chance  of  seizing  him,  was  indeed  a  consummation 
devoutly  to  be  wished,  but  not  in  the  least  to  be  expected. 
A  plot  to  murder  the  King  and  the  duke  !  Why,  Algernon 
Sydney  would  be  one  of  the  first  to  be  arrested.  His  foes 
would  be  so  thankful  for  any  excuse  of  getting  him  out  of 
the  way.  This  dangerous  man,  this  avowed  Republican, 
whose  murder  had  again  and  again  been  attempted  by 
the  court  party,  who  was  more  feared  than  anybody, 
because  "it  was  known  he  could  not  be  corrupted;"* 
that,  while  others  might  be  bought  over  to  the  royal  inter- 
ests, Sydney,  sternly  incorruptible,  would  remain  forever 
true  to  his  own  principles. 

Hugo  could  only  hope  that  he  might  retire  to  France, 
and  find  again  safety  in  exile  ;  but  the  weary  sense  of  his 
own  helplessness,  and  the  fears  which  he  knew  were  well- 
founded,  weighed  heavily  on  his  heart,  while  again  and 
again  he  recollected  the  grim  foreboding  of  coming  evil 
which  had  oppressed  him  at  their  last  parting. 

Sydney's  words  rang  in  his  ears,  but  they  rang  now  like 
a  death-knell,  though  at  the  time  they  had  been  cheerfully 
spoken. 

"We  shall  meet  again  in  London  ! " 

Ay,  in  London.     But  where  ? 

It  was  not  until  sunrise  that  sleep  came  to  him,  stilling 
for  a  time  the  weary  train  of  apprehensive  thoughts.  The 

*  Sec  Sydney's  Apology.  This  remark  was  made  by  one  of  his  friends, 
and  given  in  explanation  of  the  great  hostility  of  the  court  party. 


Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  165 

household  was  soon  after  astir,  the  dairymaid  churning, 
the  cow-boy  coming  in  with  the  morning  milk,  the  gar- 
dener mowing  the  bowling-green,  and  whistling  as  he 
sharpened  his  scythe.  But  Hugo  was  sleeping  too  soundly 
to  be  disturbed  ;  he  did  not  even  hear  the  steps  which 
some  time  later  ascended  the  little  staircase  ;  he  did  not 
hear  his  door  open,  or  know  that  one  stood  beside  his  bed, 
looking  down  at  him  sadly,  and  with  fatherly  pity. 

Colonel  Wharncliffe  was  obliged  to  rouse  him. 

He  started  up  at  the  sound  of  his  name,  and  the  face  so 
peaceful  in  sleep  instantly  resumed  its  expression  of  suf- 
fering and  of  strained  anxiety. 

"  I  came  to  bid  you  farewell,"  said  the  colonel.  "  It  is 
as  we  feared,  the  cobbler  has  brought  me  word  that  a 
stranger  has  arrived  this  morning  at  the  village  inn,  and 
with  him  Sir  Peregrine  Blake  and  two  constables,  with 
half-a-dozen  men  in  attendance.  They  have  stopped  at 
the  inn,  and  will  breakfast  there  before  proceeding." 

"Escape,  then — escape  while  there  is  time  1 "  said 
Hugo,  eagerly.  "Why  linger  here  with  me?  " 

"I  would  have  you  escape  with  me,"  said  the  colonel. 
•'  Share  my  hiding-place.  Even  were  we  found, your  fate 
could  scarcely  be  worse  than  it  will  be  now." 

"And  who  would  meet  my  brother?"  said  Hugo. 
"Who  would  bear  the  brunt  of  the  inquiries  ?  who  would 
suffer  from  his  wrath  ?  Your  wife,  perhaps  your 
daughters.  Ay  !  you  look  incredulous,  but  you  do  not 
know  my  brother." 

"  In  that  case,  I  will  stay  with  them  myself/'  said  the 
colonel,  composedly. 

"No, "broke  in  Hugo,  passionately,  "you  nmst  not, 
you  shall  not  stay.  I  beg  you — I  implore  yoi> — let  me 
make  the  only  amends  in  my  power.  Have  I  not  given 
you  my  word  ?  Would  you  have  me  go  back  from  it  ? " 

"My  poor  lad,  I  believe  that  you  are  indeed  as  brave 
and  as  true — ay,  and  as  faithful  to  me  as  my  own  son 
might  have  been.  But  look  you,  this  will  be  a  hard 
matter,  and  you  are  but  young — very  young." 

"  Not  too  young  to  suffer,"  said  Hugo,  resolutely,  "or 
to  hold  my  tongue.  Sir,  I  thank  you  for  your  kindness, 
but  I  cannot  and  will  not  escape." 

"Then,"  said  the  colonel,  solemnly,  "may  the  Al- 
mighty strengthen  you  and  bless  you.  Farewell,  my 
•on." 


l66  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

He  wrung  his  hand  and  turned  away. 

It  was  not  till  he  had  been  gone  some  time  that  Hugo 
recollected  the  manuscript  book,  which,  in  all  the  haste 
and  confusion,  had  been  left  behind  in  his  lute-case.  He 
took  it  forth,  hastily  re-arranged  his  dress,  then,  giving  one 
last  look  round  the  little  room  in  which  he  had  undergone 
so  much,  he  made  his  way,  for  the  first  time  since  his  ac- 
cident, down  the  steep  stairs,  and  into  the  hall. 

The  first  person  he  met  was  Joyce. 

She  was  looking  very  pale  and  anxious.  The  thought 
that  he  had  brought  this  suffering  upon  her  was  almost 
more  than  he  could  endure  ;  but  it  was  no  time  to  think 
of  personal  pain,  or  even  of  self-reproach.  Stifling  the 
words  of  regret  and  shame  which  rose  to  his  lips,  he 
abruptly  opened  the  subject  that  was  of  real  importance. 

"Cousin  Joyce,"  he  said,  "your  father  bore  not  with 
him  this  book  of  treatises.  It  must  be  hidden  right 
speedily,  or  we  shall  be  undone." 

She  mechanically  held  out  her  hand  for  it,  and  motioned 
to  him  to  sit  down  in  one  of  the  high-backed  chairs. 

"  But  where  can  we  put  it  ?  "  she  said  with  bewildered 
face.  "  I  can  think  of  naught  this  morning,  my  head  is 
so  weary." 

"Could  you  not  burn  it?    said  Hugo." 

"There  is  but  the  kitchen  fire,  and  the  maids  are  in  the 
kitchen  and  would  see  all." 

"Then  tie  a  stone  to  it  and  fling  it  in  the  moat,"  he  said, 
decidedly. 

Before  he  could  offer  his  help  she  had  bounded  away, 
found  a  weight  and  a  cord,  tied  the  book  securely,  and 
hurried  out  bare-headed  from  the  back  door.  The  morning 
was  fine,  the  hot  midsummer  sun  beat  full  down  upon 
her  as  she  ran,  glancing  apprehensively  across  the  water 
into  the  park  to  see  if  any  witnesses  were  in  sight.  All 
was  still  and  peaceful,  however,  cruelly  peaceful  it  seemed 
to  Joyce.  How  could  the  birds  sing  so  distractingly,  how 
could  the  cattle  graze  with  such  provoking  calmness,  how 
could  all  nature  bear  so  composed  a  face  when  her  father 
lay  concealed  within  his  own  house,  deeming  himself 
secure  indeed,  but  yet  running  no  small  risk  of  discovery 
should  a  thorough  search  of  the  premises  be  instituted  ? 
And  Hugo  !  Come  what  might  he  must  suffer ;  come 
what  might  he  must  be  borne  away  by  the  cruel  brother 
who  had  already  once  threatened  to  shoot  him,  and  who 


/AT  THE  GOLDEN  DA  vs.  167 

was  doubtless  quite  capable  of  doing  the  deed  !  Joyce's 
heart  felt  fit  to  break  as  she  thought  of  it,  the  tears  blinded 
her  eyes,  but  she  dashed  them  away  that  she  might  see 
how  best  to  drop  the  precious  book.  For  now  she  stood 
on  the  little  wooden  bridge,  and  had  not  Hugo  bade  her 
be  quick?  One  more  hurried  glance  around,  then  she 
threw  the  book  over  the  rail  and  watched  it  splash  down 
into  the  water  below.  In  a  dull,  mechanical  sort  of  way 
she  watched  the  widening  circles  in  the  water  as  they 
grew  fainter  and  fainter.  Presently  all  was  calm  once 
more,  and  the  book  was  securely  buried  in  its  watery 
grave.  But  yet  something  had  happened  which  made 
Joyce  clutch  at  the  railing  of  the  bridge  and  turn  deathly 
white.  For  as  the  circles  died  away  upon  the  water  a 
faint,  monotonous  sound  fell  upon  her  ear ;  she  scarcely 
knew  at  first  whether  it  might  not  be  the  beating  of  her 
own  heart.  She  paused  and  listened  once  more.  Nearer 
and  nearer  that  dreaded  sound  was  fast  approaching — 
"One-two,  one-two,  one-two!"  Horses' hoofs  beyond 
a  doubt !  The  horsemen  who  were  coming  to  seek  her 
father's  ruin  ;  the  horsemen  who  would  assuredly  bear 
Hugo  away. 

Well,  at  least  she  would  tell  him  the  book  was  safe,  at 
least  she  would  bid  him1  farewell. 

Breathlessly  she  hurried  to  the  hall.  Hugo  was  still 
leaning  back  in  the  chair  beside  the  hearth  where  she  had 
left  him. 

"Cousin  Hugo,"  she  exclaimed,  "  it  is  safe,  but,  oh,  I 
hear  the  sound  of  horsemen  in  the  distance  1 " 

Her  face  was  blanched  with  fear. 

"Will  you  not  trust  me?"  he  said,  quietly.  "I  would 
sooner  die  than  betray  your  father." 

" Trust  you  !  " she  cried.  "Ay,  I  would  trust  you  be- 
fore all  the  world.  But,  oh!  Cousin  Hugo,  it  is  for  you 
that  I  fear.  What  may  they  not  do  to  you  ? " 

"I  cannot  tell,"  he  replied  ;  "  I  do  not  wish  to  think. 
It  is  enough  for  me  if  I  can  by  silence  shelter  you.  Sweet 
cousin,  do  not  weep ;  your  tears  pain  me  far  more  than 
can  their  blows." 

Betty  and  Damaris  joined  them  ere  more  could  be  said, 
and  Joyce  dried  her  eyes  and  crossed  the  hall  to  look 
forth  from  the  window. 

"They  come!"  she  cried,  after  a  minute's  silence, 
during  which  Hugo  had  been  trying  to  understand  how 


l68  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

the  other  girls  regarded  him,  whether  their  trust  in  his 
honor  was  as  complete  as  Joyce's.  There  was  a  stir  and 
a  commotion  all  through  the  house  ;  the  members  of  the 
family  gathered  together  in  the  hall,  some  looked  appre- 
hensively at  the  approaching  horsemen,  some  looked  at 
the  slight  boyish  figure  in  the  chair  by  the  hearth,  upon 
whom  their  fate  depended.  Poor  Mrs.  Wharncliffe  sighed 
as  she  looked.  He  was  so  young,  so  little  able  to  resist 
a  stronger  will.  It  seemed  indeed  to  her  that  her  husband 
had  trusted  to  a  broken  reed  in  trusting  to  his  young  kins- 
man's honor.  He  might  mean  well  enough,  but  how 
could  he  cope  with  the  guardian  who  was  double  his  age, 
and  who  had  three  times  his  force  of  character  ? 

She  had  yet  to  learn  that  character  is  not  ready-made, 
but  is  created  bit  by  bit,  and  day  by  day. 

The  horsemen  drew  nearer,  crossed  the  draw-bridge, 
rode  up  to  the  door,  and  dismounted.  There  was  a  buzz 
of  conversation  without,  but  within  there  reigned  an  un- 
broken silence.  All  eyes  were  turned  now  upon  Hugo. 
He  still  leaned  back  in  the  chair.  Would  he  never  move  ? 
Would  he  never  speak  ?  Was  this  their  protector  ?  This 
the  man  upon  whom  depended  their  whole  future  ! 

A  thundering  knock  at  the  hall-door  brought  Dennis  the 
man  to  open  it  • 

"Is  Colonel  Wharncliffe  within?"  asked  Sir  Peregrine 
Blake. 

"  He  is  away  from  home,  sir,"  replied  the  man  com- 
posedly. 

The  magistrate  swore  a  deep  oath.  But  another  voice 
interrupted  him  impatiently. 

"Away  from  home!  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it. 
Here,  sirrah  !  let  me  enter.  The  traitor  is  in  hiding  some- 
where. Let  us  by,  you  villain  !  I  tell  you  we  have  a 
warrant  for  his  arrest.  Where  is  the  young  German  lad  ?  " 

Dennis  knew  that  to  resist  the  entrance  of  the  magis- 
trate and  the  attendants  was  useless  ;  he  stood  aside  and 
they  made  their  way  into  the  hall. 

"Where  is  Karl,  the  lutist  ?  "  reiterated  Randolph,  im- 
patiently. 

No  one  replied,  but  Hugo  slowly  raised  himself,  and 
walked  forward  a  few  paces. 

"There  is  no  one  of  that  name  present,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"I  have  dropped  all  disguise,  Randolph;  our  kinsfolk 
know  my  name," 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  169 

Randolph,  taking  no  notice  of  any  one  else,  rushed 
straight  up  to  his  brother,  seized  him  by  the  collar  and 
shook  him  much  as  a  cat  shakes  a  mouse  preparatory  to 
killing  it. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  said,  through  his  teeth. 

Hugo  made  no  reply. 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  repeated  Randolph.  "Have 
you  warned  that  traitor  ?  " 

"  I  confessed  to  Colonel  Wharncliffe  that  I  had  played 
the  spy  in  his  house,"  said  Hugo,  in  a  low  voice. 

"You  warned  him,  knowing  that  to  do  so  would  ruin 
my  plans  ? " 

"  I  warned  him,  knowing  that  it  was  right  to  do  so." 

"Then  take  that  for  your  reward  !  " 

And  he  dealt  him  a  blow  which  made  him  measure  his 
length  on  the  flagstones. 

There  was  a  sort  of  subdued  exclamation  in  the  group 
of  spectators.  The  daughters  of  the  house — a  little  group 
of  gray  gowns  and  broad  white  collars,  contrasting 
strangely  with  the  bright  colors  worn  by  the  invading 
body — shrank  nearer  to  their  mother,  who  stood  before 
them  like  a  hen  sheltering  her  chickens.  She  was  very 
pale,  and  there  was  no  mistaking  the  anxiety  in  her  face, 
but  to  insult  her  calm  dignity  would  have  been  impossible. 
Randolph  took  off  his  hat  as  he  turned  to  her,  and  bowed 
slightly. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  " this  gentleman,"  he  indicated  an 
officer  who  stood  beside  Sir  Peregrine,  "bears  a  warrant 
for  Colonel  Wharncliffe 's  arrest.  He  is  charged  with  com- 
plicity in  the  plot  to  kill  His  Majesty  and  the  Duke  of 
York." 

"  Whosoever  charges  him  with  such  a  crime,  charges 
him  falsely,"  she  said,  with  a  calm  smile. 

"  Madam,"  continued  Randolph,  "your  husband  is 
charged  upon  certain  evidence  ;  I  myself  deposed  to  his 
disaffection  towards  the  Government,  his  own  papers 
proved  the  like,  and  my  brother  will  confirm  all  and  render 
the  evidence  irrefutable." 

"  Never !"  exclaimed  Hugo,  emphatically. 

He,  was  on  his  feet  again.  His  eyes  flashed,  as  even 
dreamy  gray  eyes  can  flash  upon  occasion.  He  looked 
full  at  Randolph  as  though  daring  him  to  do  his  worst. 

Randolph  returned  his  gaze  with  one  of  prolonged  inquir- 
ing scrutiny.  This  sudden  development  of  resolution,  of 


170 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 


courage,  of  opposition  surprised  him  not  a  little.  It  upeel 
all  his  calculations. 

"More  of  that  anon,  "he  remarked,  after  a  pause.  Then, 
turning  to  Mrs.  Wharncliffe,  "  I  must  trouble  you,  madam, 
to  tell  us  where  your  husband  is." 

"  My  husband  is  absent,"  she  answered,  quietly. 
"  And  I  can  give  you  no  information  as  to  his  movements. " 

Randolph  stepped  across  to  the  officer,  and  they  con- 
sulted together  for  a  minute  or  two.  Then  the  officer 
crossed  the  hall. 

"  It  will  be  our  duty,  madam,  to  search  the  premises," 
he  said,  "  and  in  the  meantime  the  household  will  remain 
here  in  view  of  two  of  my  men." 

She  bowed  assent,  and  with  great  dignity  moved  to  one 
of  the  carved  arm-chairs  beside  the  hearth.  The  girls 
followed  her,  and  stood  around  her  chair.  Hugo  went 
back  to  his  old  quarters  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth, 
while  at  the  further  end  of  the  hall  Sir  Peregrine  Blake  and 
Randolph  sat  talking  together  over  the  tankards  of  ale  for 
which  they  had  not  scrupled  to  ask.  The  two  constables 
paced  up  and  down  keeping  guard,  and  wishing  them- 
selves with  their  fellows,  who  were  enjoying  a  far  more 
exciting  game  of  hide-and-seek. 

Endless  seemed  the  waiting-time  to  all  concerned,  but 
more  especially  to  those  who  waited  beside  the  hearth. 
The  secret  hiding-place  was  indeed  hard  to  find,  but  if  by 
evil  chance  they  were  to  come  across  it ! 

The  suspense  was  a  slow  agony.  It  required  all  Mrs. 
Wharncliffe's  well-bred  self-control  to  prevent  her  from 
starting  as  the  steps  of  the  searchers  were  heard  overhead, 
here,  there,  and  everywhere,  about  the  rambling  old 
house.  She  heard  every  sound,  every  exclamation,  every 
door  which  was  opened  or  shut  The  whole  power  of  her 
being  seemed  to  have  concentrated  itself  into  the  sense 
of  hearing.  But  for  all  that  she  betrayed  no  emotion, 
only  sat  very  still  and  held  little  Evelyn's  hand  fast. 

At  length  came  the  longed-for  relief !  The  party  re- 
turned, confessing  that  they  had  made  a  thorough  search 
both  of  the  house  and  the  premises,  and  that  no  trace  of 
the  colonel  was  to  be  found.  Little  Evelyn  could  not 
restrain  a  relieved  smile  ;  the  others,  taking  their  cue  from 
their  mother,  maintained  a  stately  indifference  of  expres- 
sion. 

But  once  again  jxjor  Mrs.  Wharncliffe  trembled  as  she 


IW  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  1 7 1 

glanced  across  to  the  other  side  of  the  hearth.  That  poor 
youth  who  looked  already  so  weary,  so  worn  out, — in  his 
strength,  in  his  steadfastness  lay  their  hope  for  the  future  ! 
True,  he  had  made  just  now  a  gallant  resistance.  But 
the  effort  seemed  to  have  exhausted  his  strength.  He 
had  collapsed  entirely.  The  fire  had  gone  out  of  his  eyes, 
the  manliness  had  gone  from  his  bearing  ;  he  watched 
fixedly  the  brother  who  had  hitherto  exercised  such  a 
strange  influence  over  him.  Oh,  would  the  old  fascina- 
tion prove  too  strong  for  him  ?  would  his  resolution  far!  ? 

She  was  recalled  from  her  own  thoughts  by  a  stormy 
altercation  at  the  other  end  of  the  hall. 

"  Not  found  him  ? "  exclaimed  Randolph.  "  Idiots  !  I 
tell  you  he  shall  be  found !  I'll  get  the  truth  out  of  that 
boy ;  bring  him  forward  !  " 

The  two  constables  moved  towards  Hugo,  but  he  waved 
them  back,  and  himself  walked  steadily  towards  his 
brother,  who,  following  Sir  Peregrine,  had  approached  the 
table  in  the  middle  of  the  hall. 

"  Now,  lad,"  said  Sir  Peregrine,  not  unkindly,  "  I've 
long  ago  forgiven  you  the  wound  you  gave  me,  and  it  is 
as  a  friend  that  I  counsel  you  to  obey  your  brother,  and 
reveal  all  that  you  know  about  this  confounded  colonel 
What  is  his  fate  to  you  ?  Your  duty  to  your  brother, 
your  duty  to  your  Sovereign,  alike  demand  that  you  shall 
disclose  this  matter." 

"  Sir,"  said  Hugo,  respectfully,  "  you  demand  what  is 
impossible." 

"Impossible!  What  nonsense  is  this?  Impossible  1 
How  impossible  ?  " 

"  Impossible,  sir,  because  it  is  against  my  conscience." 

Srr  Peregrine  laughed  aloud. 

* '  By  the  powers,  if  thai  isn't  the  same  thing  he  said 
before  our  duel  !  Conscience — I  know  nothing  of  con- 
science !  All  I  know  is  that  you  owe  duty  to  your  King 
and  to  your  brother,  and  that  you  owe  naught  to  this 
traitor. " 

"Pardon  me,  sir,"  said  Hugo,  "there  is  one  thing  we 
owe  to  all  men,  whether  they  befriends  or  foes, — we  owe 
them  justice." 

"  We  waste  time  bandying  words,"  said  Sir  Peregrine, 
impatiently.  "  It  would  be  much  more  to  the  purpose, 
lad,  if  you  told  us  when  you  last  saw  Colonel  Wham- 
diflfe." 


172 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 


"More  to  your  purpose,  sir,"  said  Hugo,  quietly,  "but 
not  to  mine." 

"Leave  him  to  me,  Blake,"  said  Randolph,  interposing. 
"Why  attempt  to  argue  with  him?  I'll  find  more  con- 
vincing arguments  than  words." 

He  laid  a  firm  hand  on  Hugo's  shoulder,  and,  fixing  his 
eyes  on  him,  said,  in  a  low,  yet  strangely  forceful  voice, 

"  Just  now,  Hugo,  you  said  that  you  would  never  give 
evidence  against  Colonel  Wharncliffe.  Do  you  know 
that  such  a  refusal  will  render  you  guilty  of  misprision  of 
treason  ?  " 

"I  know  that  I  should  be  charged  with  misprision," 
he  replied. 

"You  will  be  charged,  and  most  assuredly  found  guilty. 
And  the  penalty  of  misprision  of  treason  is  imprisonment 
for  life. " 

Hugo  made  a  sign  of  assent,  but  did  not  speak. 

"Am  I  to  understand  that  you  will  be  such  a  fool  as  to 
incur  this  in  order  to  shelter  the  foe  of  your  own  family?  " 

"  I  will  suffer  it  in  order  to  make  amends  for  an  act 
of  injustice,"  said  Hugo,  firmly. 

"I  am  loth  to  take  you  at  your  word,"  said  Randolph, 
his  face  clouding.  "Once  more  I  will  give  you  a 
chance.  Do  you  refuse  to  obey  me  in  this  matter?  " 

"Ay,  sir,  I  respectfully  refuse." 

"You  will  not  give  evidence  against  this  man  ?  " 

A  shudder  ran  through  the  watchers  by  the  hearth. 
The  elder  brother  had  spoken  this  last  appeal  more  in 
sorrow  than  in  anger  ;  there  was  deep  regret,  deep  appeal 
in  his  tone.  For  an  instant  it  seemed  that  Hugo  wavered. 
Was  there  no  compromise  that  he  could  make  ?  Must 
he  definitely  and  forever  sever  himself  from  Randolph  ? 
Must  he  sacrifice  his  whole  life  ?  The  struggle  was  but 
momentary,  however.  His  eye  kindled,  a  great  calm- 
ness overspread  his  face. 

"  I  will  never  witness  against  him,  so  help  me  God  !  " 

The  words  seemed  to  vibrate  through  the  little  assembly. 
They  had  not  been  spoken  loudly,  yet  they  fell  upon  the 
ears  of  all  present  with  a  curious  power. 

Their  effect  upon  Randolph  was  extraordinary.  In  an 
instant  they  changed  him  from  the  elder  brother,  regret- 
fully showing  the  effect  of  this  course  of  action,  to  the 
stern,  almost  cruel  avenger. 

"Well,  Sir  Peregrine,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh,  "bring  out 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 


'73 


your  ink-horn  and  make  out  a  warrant  for  the  committal 
of  this  young  rebel. " 

Sir  Peregrine  obeyed,  muttering  oaths  and  ejaculations, 
which  were  not  complimentary  to  the  rebel  in  question. 

Hugo  scarcely  heeded  them,  however.  In  a  dazed  way 
he  watched  the  magistrate  writing  slowly  and  laboriously 
the  order  which  was  to  deprive  him  of  his  freedom.  It  is 
not  in  the  first  moments  that  we  realize  all  the  meaning 
of  future  evil,  even  when  we  have  voluntarily  embraced 
that  evil.  There  was  a  time  of  numbness,  a  time  of 
semiparalysis,  which  almost  invariably  interposes  itself 
between  the  falling  of  the  blow  and  the  sharpest  of  the 
suffering. 

There  was  no  lack  of  evidence  that  Hugo  had  in  fact 
concealed  Colonel  Wharncliffe's  supposed  treason.  He 
had  made  away  with  the  book  of  manuscripts,  had 
warned  him  of  the  danger  in  which  he  stood.  To  obtain 
the  signatures  for  his  committal  was  but  the  work  of  a 
few  minutes. 

But  Randolph  had  not  yet  done  with  him.  Irritated 
almost  beyond  endurance  by  the  calmness  of  his  bearing, 
he  once  more  laid  forcible  hands  on  him. 

' '  There  is  more  to  be  had  out  of  this  fellow  yet,  Blake. 
He  has  ruined  his  own  chances,  but  I'll  yet  have  some 
sort  of  clue  to  the  colonel's  hiding-place  from  him. 
Here,  sirrah,  bring  me  my  riding- whip." 

Mrs.  Wharncliffe  stepped  forward  with  an  eager  appeal. 

"Sir,  I  implore  you,  do  him  no  violence." 

But  there  she  checked  herself,  for  Hugo  gave  her  a 
warning  look  ;  she  knew  that  he  meant  his  tormentors  to 
deem  by  his  silence  that  with  him  only  lay  the  secret  of 
the  colonel's  movements.  Had  the  safety  of  any  but  her 
husband  depended  on  her  silence,  however,  she  could 
not  have  let  her  guest  suffer.  But  she  thought  of  her 
husband  and  went  back  to  the  hearth.  Evelyn  and 
Damaris  were  crying,  Betty  trying  to  comfort  them  ; 
Frances  looked  pale  and  anxious,  Robin?,  excited,  while 
Joyce  stood,  her  hands  locked  tightly  togi  ther,  her  eyes 
dilated,  and  a  burning  spot  of  color  in  her  cheeks. 

"Joyce,  my  love,  Joyce,"  said  her  mother,  softly. 

The  girl  turned,  caught  at  the  hand  stretched  out  to  her, 
and  crouched  down  beside  her  mother  with  her  face  hid- 
den. She  did  not  cry,  but  she  trembled  from  head  to 
foot.  And  jet  all  the  time  she  was  making  a  desperate 


174 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 


effort  to  still  herself,   for  although  to  listen  was  torture 
she  yet  longed  to  hear  whether  Hugo  spoke  or  not 

"When  did  you  confess  this  to  the  colonel,  and  when 
did  you  last  see  him?"  asked  the  elder  brother.  "Mark 
me  well,  I  will  flog  you  till  you  answer  me." 

"Then  you  may  flog  till  doomsday,"  was  Hugo's  reply. 

And  after  that  he  never  spoke ;  not  a  sound  was 
heard  in  the  hall  save  the  sound  of  the  heavy  leathern 
thong  as  it  descended,  and  the  unanswered  questions, 
reiterated  from  time  to  time. 

To  Joyce  it  seemed  like  an  eternity.  At  length  the 
dreadful  monotony  was  broken  by  an  ejaculation  from 
Sir  Peregrine  Blake.  Floggings  were  very  common  in 
those  days — masters  constantly  flogged  their  servants,  and 
parents  their  sons.  But  they  did  it  in  moderation,  and  had 
some  regard  to  the  consequences.  In  his  wrath  Randolph 
seemed  forgetful  of  these.  He  could  only  take  in  the  one 
maddening  thought,  that  his  brother,  who  had  been  his 
obedient  tool,  was  now  withholding  the  one  thing  which 
he  longed  to  know. 

"Odds-fish,  man  !  you'll  kill  the  lad,"  exclaimed  the 
magistrate.  "  Be  warned  by  me,  and  stop,  for  it  would  be 
an  awkward  thing  for  a  magistrate  to  have  countenanced 
you. " 

Then,  as  Randolph  took  no  heed,  the  magistrate  beck- 
oned to  the  chief  constable. 

"Take  the  prisoner  in  charge,  Mr.  Constable,"  he  said. 
"  He  is  your  property  now,  and  we  must  put  a  stop  to  this 
game." 

The  man,  who  had  very  reluctantly  witnessed  the  scene, 
promptly  stepped  forward,  and  intimated  to  Randolph  that 
the  prisoner  must  be  removed.  Randolph  in  a  violent 
passion  poured  forth  a  torrent  of  oaths,  but  they  fell  off 
the  constable  like  water  off  a  duck's  back — he  quietly 
motioned  to  his  men  to  assist  him,  and  together  they  bore 
off  Hugo's  inanimate  form  to  the  north  parlor. 

One  of  Sir  Pe'  egrine  Blake's  servants  hurried  forward  as 
they  made  their  way  from  the  hall. 

"The  young  gentleman's  clothes,  sir,  which  we  brought 
from  Longbridge  ?  Shall  I  bear  them  to  him  ? " 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Sir  Peregrine,  "he'd  best  go  to  jail  in 
his  own  character,  not  as  a  strolling  musician.  Ay, 
Launce,  bear  them  after  him,  and  bid  him  make  haste  and 
don  them." 


Uf  THE  GOLDEN  DA  KSL  175 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

"  IT  IS  YOUR  LOVE  I  WANT." 

Love,  led  by  faith  and  fed  by  hope,  is  able 
To  travel  through  the  world's  wide  wilderness ; 
And  burdens  seeming  most  intolerable 
Both  to  take  up  and  bear  with  cheerfulness. 
To  do  or  suffer,  what  appears  in  sight 
Extremely  heavy,  love  will  make  most  light 

Yea,  what  by  men  is  done  or  suffered, 
Either  for  God,  or  else  for  one  another, 
Though  in  itself  it  be  much  blemished 
With  many  imperfections  which  smother, 
And  drown  the  worth  and  weight  of  it ;  yet,  fall 
What  will  or  can,  love  makes  amends  for  all. 

CHRISTOPHER  HARVEY. 

ALL  this  time  Colonel  Wharncliffe  lay  securely  hidden  in 
the  secret  room  which  had  served  them  so  well.  High  up 
in  the  wall,  just  within  the  cupboard-like  entrance  to  the 
staircase  which  led  to  the  gallery,  there  was  a  tiny  sliding 
door,  large  enough  to  permit  a  man  to  creep  through  it  on 
hands  and  knees.  No  one  unacquainted  with  the  secret 
would  be  in  the  least  likely  to  discover  it,  and  it  could  only 
be  reached  by  means  of  a  ladder.  Crawling  through 
the  narrow  aperture,  you  emerged  into  a  good-sized  room, 
not  more  than  five  feet  high,  however,  and  depending  for 
light  and  air  on  some  tiny  crevices  in  the  outer  wall.  It 
was  between  the  ceiling  of  the  south  parlor  and  the  floor 
of  the  room  above,  and  it  would  have  been  quite  possible 
to  live  in  the  house  for  years  and  never  know  of  the  ex- 
istence of  this  curiously  planned  retreat. 

Well  supplied  with  rugs,  food,  and  books,  which  might 
be  read  while  sitting  close  to  the  largest  air-hole,  Col- 
onel Wharncliffe  might  have  passed  a  very  tolerable 
day,  had  it  not  been  for  his  great  anxiety.  Voices  and 
footsteps  he  could  indeed  distinguish  in  his  hiding-place, 
but  the  confused  Babel  only  made  him  more  wretched. 
He  longed  to  come  forth  and  see  how  matters  were  going, 
longed  to  learn  the  fate  of  poor  Hugo.  He  heard  the  sound 


l?6  fff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

of  the  search-party  ransacking  every  corner  of  the  house, 
heard  steps  going  up  and  down  the  little  staircase,  and 
men  questioning  each  other  as  to  the  possibility  of  sliding 
panels  within  a  few  yards  of  his  invisible  door.  But  no 
one  had  found  him  ;  and  after  that  came  a  long,  quiet  in- 
terval, when,  although  he  strained  every  nerve  to  listen, 
he  could  make  out  nothing,  save  that  some  sort  of  con- 
clave must  be  proceeding  in  the  hall.  After  a  time,  there 
were  sounds  as  of  hurried  dispersion  ;  the  servants  re- 
turned to  the  kitchen,  and  old  nurse  came  up  the  gallery 
stairs  with  little  Evelyn,  who  was  crying. 

" Don't  fret,  child,"  he  heard  her  say.  "He  is  a  brave 
lad,  and  you  should  be  proud  of  him." 

Then  they  passed  on  to  the  nursery,  and  once  more 
there  was  silence.  What  could  have  happened  ?  Hugo 
had  kept  his  promise,  that  was  evident, — but  what  had 
they  done  to  him  ? 

Again  a  step  on  the  staircase,  and  again  the  closing  of 
the  door  behind  some  one  who  crept  up  very  slowly,  and 
went  softly  into  the  gallery.  He  heard  a  long,  sobbing 
sigh,  but  could  not  tell  who  it  came  from,  though  he 
fancied  that  the  step  was  like  Joyce's. 

Sir  Peregrine,  meanwhile,  having  done  his  best  to  talk 
Randolph  into  a  better  temper,  and  having  signally 
failed,  thought  that  a  good  dinner  was  the  best  that  the 
household  could  afford  him  for  all  the  trouble  he  had  taken 
on  this  hot  summer  day.  And  accordingly  every  one  was 
hastening  to  the  kitchen  and  the  buttery,  and  doing  the 
dest  that  could  be  done  to  furnish  an  unexpected  meal  for 
a  dozen  hungry  men.  In  the  confusion,  Joyce  stole 
away  by  herself  to  the  gallery,  and  crouched  down  in  a 
shady  corner,  where  she  could  watch  the  door  of  the  north 
parlor  without  being  herself  seen.  After  a  time,  the  con- 
stable and  the  two  men  who  had  gone  in  with  Hugo  re- 
turned to  the  hall.  One  of  them  bore  the  musician's 
clothes  which  Hugo  had  worn  as  a  disguise.  The  chief 
constable  locked  the  door  behind  him,  and  pocketed  the 
key,  then  stepped  up  to  Sir  Peregrine. 

"The  young  gentleman  has  revived,  sir,  and  has 
donned  his  own  riding  suit,  but  I  doubt  whether  he  be  fit 
to  travel  to  Bishop-Stortford  to-night" 

"Fit!  nonsense.  Confound  your  scruples,  I  tell  you 
he  shall  be  fit !  "  interposed  Randolph.  ' '  I'll  soon  make 
him  fit." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN1  DA  YS,  177 

He  arose  as  though  meditating  an  immediate  visit  to 
the  prisoner,  but  the  constable  made  no  sign  of  yielding 
the  key,  and  Sir  Peregrine  interposed. 

"Dinner  first,  my  boy,  dinner  first,  to  sweeten  your 
tongue  and  your  temper.  Ah  !  here  comes  a  chine  of 
beef  in  the  very  nick  of  time.  Come,  let  us  fall  to,  and 
leave  yon  poor  fellow  to  digest  the  leathering  you  gave 
him.  Come  on,  come  on,  I'll  do  the  carving,  since  your 
arm  maybe  is  a  bit  weary. " 

In  the  gallery,  Joyce  clinched  her  hands  fiercely  as  the 
laughter  evoked  by  this  remark  rose  to  her.  Then  a 
sudden  thought  occurred  to  her.  She  stole  softly  down- 
stairs once  more,  ran  to  the  kitchen,  and  snatched  up  a 
freshly-baked  manchet,  then  to  the  buttery,  where  she 
filled  a  cup  with  sack,  and,  creeping  out  unperceived  by 
the  back  door,  she  stole  along  at  the  back  of  the  house 
till  she  came  to  the  window  of  the  withdrawing-room, 
which  opened  down  to  the  ground.  All  was  very  quiet 
there. 

There  were  two  doors  to  the  withdrawing-room.  One 
opened  at  the  foot  of  the  great  oak  staircase,  and  near  to 
the  hall ;  the  other  door,  facing  the  window,  led  to  the 
north  parlor.  It  was  just  possible  that  the  constable 
might  not  have  noticed  this,  and  might  have  left  it  un- 
locked. It  was  a  double  door.  She  opened  the  one  on 
the  withdrawing-room  side,  set  down  her  burden,  and 
listened  for  a  moment  breathlessly.  Hugo  was  certainly 
alone.  She  softly  turned  the  handle  of  the  second  door, 
and  found  that  it  yielded.  She  opened  it  a  very  little  way, 
and  called  him,  scarcely  above  her  breath. 

"  Cousin  Hugo  !  are  you  here?  " 

He  staggered  forward,  hardly  able  to  believe  his  own 
ears.  Yet  surely  it  was  Joyce  who  had  spoken  to  him  ! 

He  flung  back  the  door  impatiently.  Yes,  there  she 
stood,  with  the  cup  of  wine  and  the  manchet  of  bread  in 
her  hands,  and  her  sweet  eyes  lifted  to  his. 

' '  You  ? — you  here  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

"Hush!"  she  said,  warningly.  "Not  one  word  till 
you  have  taken  these.  They  say  you  are  to  be  carried  as 
far  as  Bishop-Stortford  this  night,  and  you  so  weary 
already. " 

He  let  her  draw  up  a  chair  for  him,  and  passively  took 
the  bread  and  wine,  which,  indeed,  he  stood  in  great 
need  of.  Joyce  stole  noiselessly  to  the  locked  door  lead- 
is 


178  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

ing  from  the  north  parlor  to  the  hall.  Looking  through 
the  keyhole,  she  could  see  the  long  table  laden  with  good 
cheer,  and  the  twelve  strangers  sitting  round  it,  while  her 
mother  sat  in  the  chair  by  the  hearth,  with  Robina  and 
the  three  elder  girls  standing  beside  her. 

"They  have  but  just  begun  their  dinner.  I  shall  have 
time  to  fetch  you  more,"  she  said,  returning  to  Hugo. 

"  No,"  he  said  ;  "I  could  not  eat  another  morsel.  Yet, 
if  indeed  there  is  time,  stay  with  me,  sweet  cousin  ;  let 
me  at  least  bid  you  farewell.  We  are  not  likely  to  see 
each  other  again. " 

"  Do  not  say  that,"  she  faltered,  trying  to  keep  back 
her  tears. 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  minute  fixedly — looked  at  her  as 
one  who  looks  at  a  picture  which  he  would  fain  carry  in 
his  mind  to  his  dying  day.  The  blue  eyes  with  just  that 
mingling  of  love  and  pain  in  them,  the  sweet  mouth  a 
little  tremulous,  the  color  coming  and  going  in  the  rounded 
cheeks,  the  sunny  brown  curls  somewhat  disordered. 

He  glanced  round  the  room  and  shuddered  involun- 
tarily, remembering  his  midnight  search.  The  old  an- 
cestor in  the  corner  still  pointed  downwards  with  his  long 
taper  hand,  the  eyes  of  the  other  pictures  still  seemed  to 
follow  him  reproachfully.  "You  played  the  spy,"  they 
seemed  to  say.  "You  in  your  kinsman's  house,  stole 
like  a  thief  at  dead  of  night.  For  shame !  for  shame  !  " 

"Joyce  1 "  he  said,  as  if  appealing  against  the  verdict  of 
the  pictures.  "  Joyce,  say  once  more  that  you  forgive 
me, — say  once  more  you  do  not  hate  me  1 " 

"  In  truth,"  she  sobbed,  "  you  have  more  than  repaid 
all  the  injury,  you  have  wiped  it  out  forever." 

"Say,  then,  that  you  do  not  hate  me." 

"  Hate  you  I  "  she  sobbed.      "  How  could  I  ?  " 

"Ah,  more  than  that!"  he  cried,  in  a  low,  passionate 
voice.  "Joyce,  Joyce — it  is  your  love  I  want, — your 
love  !  Yet  I  have  ruined  your  home, — I  dare  not  ask  it, — 
I  cannot.  But,  Joyce,  I  love  you — love  you — love  you  ! 
Wild  horses  shall  tear  me  ere  I  breathe  one  word  to  hurt 
your  father. " 

She  did  not  speak,  but  just  stooped  and  kissed  him. 

"God  bless  you  for  that !"  he  cried.  "You  pardon 
me  by  that  kiss,  you  say  you  trust  me  !  " 

"Ay,"  she  whispered,  softly.      "Ay,  and  love  you." 

"Say  it  agai«  1 "  he  exclaimed,  drawing  her  towards 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  179 

hem.     "  Say  it  once  more,  and  I  will  be  strong  to  meet 
death  and  torture  !  " 

She  flushed  rosy  red,  but  repeated  the  words  just  above 
her  breath. 

"I  love  you,  my  brave  knight, — I  love  you  I" 

"Ah,  not  brave,"  he  sighed;  "but  going  to  be,  In  the 
strength  of  your  love,  my  heart !  my  queen  !  my  helper  1 " 

Poor  children  \  their  bliss  was  but  short-lived.  All  too 
soon  Hugo's  love  warned  him  of  the  danger  which  Joyce 
incurred  by  lingering. 

"No  more  of  this,"  he  said,  gently.  "My  dear  one, 
you  must  not  stay.  I  risk  your  name — your  safety  ; 
Randolph  stands  at  nothing.  One  last  kiss — then  to 
prison  with  a  strong  heart  My  own,  my  life,  God  bless 
you  1 " 

"Make  me  one  promise  ere  we  part,"  she  said 
"Promise  that  you  will  ever  trust  my  father.  Promise 
that  you  will  come  to  him  when  you  are  free." 

"Ay,"  he  said,  smiling,  but  very  sadly,  "I  promise, 
when  I  am  free." 

Hand-in-hand  they  crossed  the  room  to  the  double  door, 
then,  once  more  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  kissing  her 
again  and  again.  No  words  now,  for  they  were  both  of 
them  past  speaking.  The  parting  was  a  silent  one.  Very 
gently  he  put  her  from  him,  watched  her  cross  the  room 
and  pass  out  through  the  window,  then  turned  back  to 
his  prison,  closing  behind  him  the  doors  which  had  proved 
for  him  the  very  portals  of  hope, 

Before  long  the  key  of  the  other  door  was  unlocked,  and 
the  chief  constable  entered. 

"You  must  follow  me,  sir, "he said.  "The  horses  are 
in  readiness.  I  am  sorry  I  can't  get  permission  to  fetch 
you  any  victuals,  but  your  guardian  will  not  permit  it." 

"Thank  you,  I  have  need  of  nothing,"  said  Hugo, 
composedly. 

The  constable  looked  at  him  in  amaze.  Was  this  the 
same  man  whom  he  had  borne  into  the  parlor  but  an  hour 
before?  And  in  fact  the  whole  household — the  whole 
household  at  least  with  one  exception — shared  in  the 
.amaze.  Had  Hugo  doffed  his  old  nature  with  his  musi- 
cian's garb,  and  donned  a  new  character  with  a  crimson 
doublet  ?  They  had  looked  to  see  him  pale,  cowed, 
scarcely  able  to  walk — and  behold  here  he  was  bearing 
himself  with  a  dignity  which  was  altogether  foreign  to 


i8o  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS: 

him,  moving  slowly  indeed,  and  not  without  difficulty, 
but  bearing  his  head  high,  as  though  he  were  the  possessor 
of  some  new  and  unknown  strength.  His  dreamy  gray 
eyes  shone  with  a  light  that  was  strangely  incomprehen- 
sible to  all  the  spectators.  His  old  expression  of  easy 
indifference  had  given  place  to  an  air  that  seemed  almost 
triumphant.  His  pale  face  was  slightly  flushed.  What 
was  the  meaning  of  it  all  ?  Was  it  thus  that  such  as  Hugo 
went  to  what  would  almost  inevitably  prove  a  lifelong 
imprisonment  ?  Was  it  thus  that  he  bade  farewell  to  a 
life  which  might  have  been  full  of  all  things  which  meu 
most  prize  ?  Was  it  thus  that  he  turned  his  back  on  court 
favor,  on  pleasure,  on  freedom  itself? 

Randolph  watched  him  curiously  as  he  walked  down  the 
hall  to  the  table  in  the  centre,  where  one  of  the  constables 
was  waiting  for  him  with  a  pair  of  handcuffs.  With  a 
touch  of  his  old  philosophic  calm  he  held  out  his  hands 
passively,  and  allowed  the  irons  to  be  placed  on  his  wrists 
without  a  word.  It  was  Mrs.  Wharncliffe  who  interceded 
for  him. 

"  Sir,"  she  said,  turning  to  Sir  Peregrine,  "  surely  you 
may  spare  him  this  indignity.  Surely  you  may  trust 
him. " 

"  Far  from  it !  "  broke  in  Randolph,  with  a  bitter  laugh. 
"  I  would  trust  him  with  naught.  These  handcuffs  were 
meant  for  your  husband,  madam,  and  my  brother  has 
donned  them  of  his  own  accord.  I  am  not  to  blame. " 

Hugo  glanced  wistfully  across  to  the  little  group  by  the 
hearth.  Joyce  had  half  hidden  herself  behind  Betty  and 
Damaris,  but  for  one  instant  their  eyes  met. 

Just  that  one  mute  farewell — he  dared  not  risk  a  second, 
lest  Randolph  should  mark  it  He  turned  to  Mrs  Wharn- 
cliffe and  kissed  her  hand. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  quickly,  "  I  thank  you  for  your 
hospitality  and  your  kindness,  and  I  pray  your  forgive- 
ness— for  all." 

He  could  not  speak  of  what  was  most  at  his  heart,  but 
he  repeated  again  in  an  undertone,  and  very  fervently, 
"Your  forgiveness  for  all — when  you  know  all." 

To  find  words  in  which  to  answer  him  was  almost  as 
difficult  for  her.  How  could  she  thank  him  with  all  those 
hostile  ears  listening  ?  To  do  so  would  but  increase  his 
difficulties.  All  she  could  do  was  by  look  and  touch  to 
convey  to  him  her  deep  gratitude* 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  181 

"Farewell,"  she  said,  her  voice  quivering  a  little. 
"  Farewell,  cousin,  and  God  bless  you." 

He  glanced  swiftly  round  the  hall,  up  to  the  gallery  where 
he  had  lived  through  so  much,  and  where  from  the  back- 
ground the  calm-faced  nun  looked  down  upon  him  !  round 
to  the  picture  of  the  man  struggling  in  the  waves,  his  con- 
stant heart  dreading  no  danger ;  then  up  to  his  own  pict- 
ure as  a  little  innocent  child,  free  from  all  penalty  of  error, 
his  hands  toying  with  a  spaniel,  and  little  deeming  that 
one  day  they  should  wear  shameful  fetters. 

In  the  mean  time  Sir  Peregrine  and  Randolph  had  bade 
farewell  to  Mrs.  Wharncliffe,  and  the  chief  constable  had 
drawa  up  his  men  around  the  prisoner  in  impressive  order. 
Another  moment  and  he  gave  the  order  to  march  out  to 
the  great  door,  where  the  horses  were  awaiting  them. 
Hugo  found  his  own  chestnut  there  ;  it  had  been  brought 
by  one  of  the  grooms  from  Longbridge  Hall,  where  it  had 
been  quartered  for  some  weeks.  The  sight  gave  him 
pleasure  ;  it  was  something  to  have  his  favorite,  even 
for  what  would  in  all  probability  prove  his  last  ride. 

Scarcely  was  he  mounted  when  the  nurse  came  out 
hastily,  bearing  his  lute-case. 

"You  have  left  this,  sir,"  she  said. 

Amid  some  laughter  one  of  the  constables  fastened  it  to 
the  saddle,  making  some  rough  joke  about  the  musician 
taking  his  music  with  him  to  jail.  But  Hugo  was  proof 
against  jokes,  for  the  nurse  had  whispered  to  him  that  he 
should  search  inside,  and  he  had  some  hope  that  Joyce 
might  have  left  him  a  message  in  it. 

And  now  indeed  the  last  moment  had  come,  the  house- 
hold was  gathered  together  at  the  door  to  watch  their 
departure.  Many  of  the  eyes  that  watched  him  were  dim 
with  tears  ;  in  all  he  could  read  gratitude,  in  some  he 
could  read  love. 

Joyce  clung  to  her  mother,  but  never  took  her  eyes  off 
Hugo.  That  upright  figure  on  the  chestnut  horse,  the 
figure  in  crimson  doublet  and  Spanish  sombrero,  with 
the  strange  new  dignity  of  expression  and  the  eyes  bright 
with  noble  self-sacrificing  love — with  love  for  her. 

And  it  was  naught  to  her  that  Sir  Peregrine  quarrelled 
with  his  servants,  and  that  Randolph  swore  at  every  one 
who  approached  him.  She  heeded  only  one  thing  in  all 
the  confusion.  Just  at  the  last  she  heard  her  lover's  voice 
pleading  rather  anxiously  with  one  of  the  constables. 


jgj  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"I  can  manage  him,  spite  of  the  irons,"  he  said  :  "he 
<vill  go  better  for  me  than  for  you  with  free  hands. " 

"I  cannot  help  it,  sir,  I  must  have  the  reins,"  said  the 
man.  And  the  prisoner,  with  a  gesture  of  impatience, 
made  them  over  to  him. 

"  Are  you  ready  ? "  said  Sir  Peregrine. 

' '  Ay,  sir, "  replied  the  chief  constable.  ' « We  will  follow 
your  honor." 

Hugo  bowed  a  farewell  to  the  group  at  the  door, 
glanced  once  again  at  Joyce,  smiled  faintly,  and  was 
borne  away. 

The  members  of  the  household  did  not  leave  the  door  till 
the  horsemen  were  out  of  sight ;  then  they  quietly  dis- 
persed, for  indeed  none  of  them  felt  as  though  they  could 
speak.  A  great  danger  had  been  averted  from  their  home  ; 
the  master  was,  for  the  present,  at  any  rate,  safe.  But  to 
save  him  a  young  life  had  been  sacrificed. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
JOYCE'S  JOURNAL. 

Lift  up  to  Him  thy  heavie  clouded  eyne, 
That  thou  His  soveraine  bountie  mayst  behold, 
And  read,  through  love,  His  mercies  manifold. 

SPENSER. 

I  SCARCE  know  whether  to  write  more  of  this  journal  or 
to  tie  these  few  sheets  together  and  leave  them  as  they  are. 
So  much  has  happened  that  will  not  bear  putting  into 
words,  and  so  much  that  may  not  with  safety  be  pre- 
served in  writing.  For  since  that  last  entry  all  things  are 
changed.  Karl  is  no  more  the  wandering  minstrel,  but 
our  own  kinsman,  Hugo  Wharncliffe,  but  how,  and  when, 
and  why,  he  revealed  it  to  us  I  dare  not  here  set  down, 
lest  perchance  these  papers  fall  into  unfriendly  hands. 
This  mudht,  however,  all  the  world  knows,  and  therefore 
I  can  do  no  wrong  by  putting  it  in  my  journal. 

While  we  were  living  on  here  so  quietly,  one  Keeling, 
a  salter  in  London,  brought  word  to  Sir  Leolyn  Jenkyns, 
principal  Secretary  of  State,  that  there  was  a  conspiracy 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  183 

abroad  to  kill  the  King.  Sir  Leolyn,  not  willing  to  hearken 
to  what  was  but  sworn  to  by  one  man,  dismissed  him 
until  he  could  bring  a  second  witness  to  confirm  his 
words ;  whereupon  he  compelled  his  younger  brother, 
much  against  his  will,  to  get  admitted  to  some  society 
where  they  say  the  talk  was  treasonable,  and  then  on  the 
fourteenth  day  of  this  month  of  June,  in  the  year  of  our 
Lord,  1683,  both  the  Keeling  brothers  gave  evidence  on 
oath  in  confirmation  of  the  plot,  and  the  news  spread 
through  the  country  like  wildfire.  They  say  the  conspir- 
ators have  been  meeting  in  many  places  in  London,  but 
most  chiefly  at  the  house  of  one  Colonel  Rumsey  in  Soho 
Square,  and  in  Mr.  West's  chambers  in  the  Temple. 
Also  at  the  sign  of  the  "  Mitre  "  in  Aldgate,  the  "Horse 
Shoe,  "Tower  Hill,  the  "King's  Head,"  Atheist  Alley,  the 
"  Salutation  "  and  the  "  George,"  Lombard  Street,  and  the 
"Green  Dragon,'*  Snow  Hill.  But,  though  folks  seem  to 
know  the  names  of  all  the  meeting-places,  every  one  has  a 
different  story  about  the  plot  itself.  Some  say  that  the 
King  and  the  Duke  were  to  have  been  murdered  on  their 
way  from  Newmarket — that  was  the  first  story  we  heard, 
and  that  they  escaped  only  by  the  fire  at  Newmarket 
causing  the  King  to  go  back  to  London  sooner  than  his 
wont.  But  this  should  have  been  in  the  spring.  Others 
talk  of  a  great  insurrection  that  was  to  have  been  on 
Queen  Elizabeth's  day,  in  November  next.  But  the 
strange  part  is  that  they  can  name  no  great  leaders  who 
were  to  head  this  great  insurrection. 

The  story  that  seems  now  to  be  credited  by  most  is  that 
which  is  given  by  two  of  the  conspirators,  who,  thinking 
to  save  themselves  by  confession,  have  not  fled  the 
country  like  all  other  suspected  people,  but  have  delivered 
themselves  up  of  free  will.  My  father  thinks  the  tale  reads 
strangely,  that  it  is  most  probably  in  some  measure  a 
sham  plot  concocted  by  these  two,  with  some  admixture 
of  truth,  but  with  many  false  details. 

This  is  the  outline  of  the  story  told  by  Mr.  West  and 
Colonel  Rumsey.  They  say  that  Mr.  Rumbold,  the  malt- 
ster, who  owns  the  Rye-House  Farm  in  Hertfordshire,  had 
offered  them  the  use  of  his  house,  which  is  strong  and 
well-placed.  Here  forty  men  were  to  be  gathered ;  the 
narrow  road  was  to  be  blocked  by  the  upsetting  of  a  cart, 
and,  the  King's  coach  being  thus  brought  to  a  standstill, 
the  armed  men  were  to  attack  and  murder  him  and  the 


j84  Of  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

Duke  of  York,  while  a  second  division  of  men  attacked 
the  guards,  and  then,  retiring,  were  to  defend  the  house 
and  moat  till  night  enabled  them  to  escape.  It  is  passing 
strange,  though,  that  they  could  but  name  eight  of  all  the 
forty  men  who  were  to  assemble  at  the  Rye-House,  and 
they  seem  to  know  naught  of  any  supply  of  arms  or  horses  ; 
nor  could  they  name  one  single  Whig  leader  who  had 
aught  to  do  with  this  scheme.  However,  they  do  declare 
that  they  have  heard  of  conferences  held  by  the  Duke  of 
Monmouth  and  other  lords  with  some  from  Scotland,  who 
planned  a  general  rising,  and  spoke  of  seizing  the  King's 
guards.  How  far  all  this  story  is  true  no  one  can  ever 
know. 

Perchance  there  may  have  been  some  who  deemed 
that  even  so  treacherous  a  murder  is  justified  by  the 
present  state  of  affairs,  though  one  would  fain  believe  it 
all  a  lie.  But,  true  or  false,  it  matters  not — it  is  currently 
believed,  and  every  Whig  is  in  danger,  every  one  who  has 
shown  disapproval  of  the  King's  government,  everyone 
who  sided  in  former  times  with  the  Commonwealth, 
party,  risks  being  apprehended.  As  to  the  leading  Whigs, 
we  have  not  yet  heard  their  fate,  but  my  father  told  us 
that  he  doubted  not  the  King  would  be  but  too  thankful 
for  any  excuse  to  lay  hands  on  them, — and  that  without 
fail  they  would  be  included  among  the  Rye-House  con- 
spirators. In  especial  he  mentioned  Colonel  Sydney,  who, 
he  says,  is  a  great  friend  to  Hugo,  the  bravest  and  best 
of  men,  but,  unfortunately  for  him,  a  well-known  Repul> 
lican. 

How  hard  and  wearisome  it  has  been  to  write  all  these 
public  tidings,  these  hateful  versions  of  plots  and  risings, 
and  murders  and  treacheries,  when  all  the  while  these 
said  plots  and  revelations  have  made  such  chaos  of  our 
home  life ! 

For,  indeed,  since  that  terrible  i8th  of  June,  all  has 
been  chaos.  I  hardly  dare  to  think  of  it  yet,  much  less 
to  write  of  all  that  slow  agony.  And  yet  it  was  that 
same  i8th  of  June  which  brought  me  the  best  thing  in  all 
the  world, — a  good  man's  love.  For  it  was  then — after 
they  had  used  him  so  cruelly — then,  when  he  was  going 
to  prison  for  the  sake  of  shielding  my  father,  that  Hugo 
told  me  he  loved  me.  It  seems  passing  strange  that  all 
this  while  dreaming  of  Juliet,  and  Imogen,  and  many 
another, ^-1  had.  yet  never  got  any  idea  of  love  at  all. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  185 

It  was  Hugo  who  opened  that  new  world  for  me,  it  waa 
Hugo  who  gave  me  my  first  glimpse  at  that  wonderful, 
wonderful  joy, — and  no  other  man  on  earth  could  ever 
have  done  it ;  for  only  he,  my  brave  knight,  had  the  key 
to  fit  my  lock. 

Surely  it  was  God  who  made  us  for  each  other.  Were 
it  not  for  that  thought,  I  could  hardly  think  he  ought  to 
love  me.  There  are  so  many  more  good,  more  clever, 
more  beautiful,  and  more  in  his  own  world.  So  many 
too  who  seem  to  need  such  a  great  gift  more  than  I  do, 
with  my  father  and  mother,  and  this  dear  Mondisfield. 
But  God  has  given  us  to  each  other,  and  there  is  naught 
for  me  to  do,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  but  to  thank  Him  for 
His  great  gift,  and  to  strive  to  grow  more  worthy  of  my 
own  true  love. 

We  all  stood  at  the  door  to  watch  them  go.  Hugo 
walked  out  of  the  hall  with  far  more  ease  than  we  looked 
for,  considering  his  long  illness.  As  to  the  fetters,  he 
seemed  not  to  heed  the  shame  of  them,  but  bore  his  head 
high,  as  he  passed  out  surrounded  by  the  constables.  In 
his  face  pain  was  blent  with  a  strange  look  of  triumph, 
and  when  he  was  mounted  on  his  beautiful  chestnut,  he 
looked,  oh,  so  far  the  noblest  of  all  the  troop  !  Spite  of 
those  cruel  handcuffs,  which  would  scarce  permit  him  to 
stroke  the  neck  of  his  favorite  steed,  he  seemed  like  the 
Prince  of  the  company,  the  others  showing  beside  him  like 
ruffians.  Then,  after  much  quarrelling  and  swearing 
from  Sir  Peregrine  and  that  other,  whom  I  cannot  yet 
name,  or  scarce  trust  myself  to  think  on,  the  word  was 
given  for  the  start 

Hugo's  eyes  looked  into  mine  for  the  last  time, — and 
they  seemed  to  say,  "Courage  even  for  this  !  Love  to 
all  eternity  !  "  Then  the  constable  led  off  his  horse,  and 
the  rest  of  the  men  fell-in  behind,  two  and  two,  and  thus 
the  cavalcade  passed  down  the  drive,  across  the  bridge, 
and  so  through  the  park  until  the  bend  in  the  road  hid 
them  from  us.  And  I  hated  the  trees  that  came  betwixt 
us,  and  I  hated  the  space  which  divided  us,  and  I  hated, 
with  a  blind,  burning,  raging  hatred,  the  cause  of  all  this 
misery,  who  must  here  be  nameless. 

What  became  of  the  others  I  do  not  know,  but  by  and 
by  I  found  that  I  was  left  alone  with  my  mother,  who  all 
the  time  had  held  my  hand  in  hers.  She  looked  in  my 
face,  but  I  dared  not  meet  her  look,  because  of  that  rage 


,86  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

which  blazed  within  my  heart,  and  must  show  mmy«ye«, 
£ut  mothers  know  without  seeing,  and  it  was  of  no  ase. 
She  put  her  arm  round  me,  and,  still  keeping  my  right 
hand  fast  in  hers,  led  me  up  to  her  bed-chamber.  Then 
she  signed  to  me  to  lie  down  and  rest  on  her  t>ed,  which 
was  just  "what  I  longed  to  do,  only  that  with  the  rest  there 
came  too  the  thought  that  all  was  over, — quite  over,  and 
with  that  a  great  fit  of  weeping  which  1  could  not  check. 
And  then  all  my  evil  thoughts,  my  hatred  to  that  other 
rushed  into  words,  and  I  raved  and  stormed  more  like  a 
foolish  child  than  a  woman— the  woman  whom  Hugo 
loves.  Every  moment  I  thought  my  mother  would  re- 
buke me,  but  for  some  time  she  did  not  speak.  At  last, 
laying  her  hand  on  my  forehead,  she  said,  very  quietly, 

"Joyce,  you  are  speaking  of  one  whom  Hugo  loves  ; 
and  not  only  that,  but  of  one  whom  the  Lord  Himself 
loves." 

' '  How  can  He  love  such  a  hrute — such  a  "brute  1  "  I  cried, 
almost  angry  to  think  it  could  be. 

But  my  mother  said  nothing,  and  in  the  silence  a  sort 
of  shame  came  over  me  to  think  of  the  words  I  had 
said.  Presently  my  mother  spoke  again  ;  she  began  as 
though  describing  a  picture,  1  knew  well  enough  whose 
picture. 

"A  young  man,"  she  said,  in  her  soft,  low  voice — "a 
young  man  just  of  age,  brought  up  in  what  for  his  station 
in  life  was  poverty,  and  even  privation.  This  had  been 
incurred  hy  his  father's  devotion  to  the  late  King,  whom 
he  had  served  faithfully,  and  in  whose  cause  he  had  suf- 
fered much.  But  the  young  man  cared  not  much  for  the 
cause,  neither  could  he  care  much  for  the  King  whom  he 
had  never  known.  He  grudged  the  lost  money  and  re- 
sented the  present  sufferings.  At  first  he  hoped  that  the 
King's  son  would  reward  the  family  for  their  past  devo- 
tion ;  but  it  was  not  so,  and  the  young  man  grew  bitter 
and  hard,  and  the  constant  hankering  after  money  and  the 
constant  brooding  over  the  injustice  ate  in  to  his  very  soul, 
And  then,  while  he  was  yet  young,  the  plague  came  and 
swept  away  in  one  week  all  that  made  his  home,  and 
alone,  he  was  thrown  upon  a  world  full  of  the  worst 
temptations.  This  man  had  a  kinsman  whom  he  hated — 
a  kinsman  who  was  richer  than  he,  and  whose  property 
had  not  been  lost,  for  he  had  been  on  the  winning  side. 
This  made  the  young  man  more  bitter  still,  and  seemed 


IN  THE  GOLDEtf  DAYS.  187 

to  him  a  fresh  injustice.  He  longed  to  wrest  the  property 
from  his  kinsman.  All  this  time  he  had  been  surrounded 
by  the  very  worst  people,  and  in  all  his  life  there  had  been 
but  one  being  to  love  him  ;  that  was  a  little  child,  whom 
he  too  loved  in  his  rough  way.  But  the  bad  craving  after 
the  money  and  the  kinsman's  property  grew  faster  than 
his  love  for  the  younger  brother,  till  at  last  it  overshadowed 
it,  and,  with  the  hope  of  at  last  gaining  the  property,  he 
did  his  brother  a  cruel  wrong." 

My  mother  paused.  She  could  not  go  on  with  the  story. 
for  who  knows  how  it  is  to  end  ?  But  somehow  her  tale 
had  softened  that  dreadful,  raging  anger  in  my  heart ;  I 
began  to  feel  very  sorry  for  that  other — that  other  whom 
Hugo  loves. 

Then  my  mother  knelt  by  the  bed  and  prayed.  I 
cannot  remember  what  she  said,  but  I  know  it  brought 
to  my  mind  the  prayer  of  Jairus— "  My  little  daughter 
lieth  at  the  point  of  death  ;  I  pray  thee,  come  and  lay 
thy  hands  on  her  that  she  may  be  healed,  and  she  shall 
live." 

And  I  saw,  as  I  had  never  seen  before,  that  hatred  was 
death  and  that  life  was  love ;  and  I  hoped  that  Jesus  would 
lay  His  hands  on  me  and  heal  me. 

And  then  all  things  grew  very  still,  and  my  mother's 
voice  seemed  to  go  further  and  further  away  into  a  dreamy 
distance,  and  I  fell  asleep. 

It  was  evening  when  I  woke.  Through  the  open  win- 
dow I  could  hear  the  cawing  of  the  rooks  as  they  flew 
home  to  their  nests  in  the  elm-trees,  and  sitting  up  in  bed, 
still  somewhat  stiff  and  weary,  I  could  see  a  long,  waver- 
ing line  of  black  against  the  evening  sky.  How  they 
fluttered  those  huge  wings  and  how  contentedly  they 
cawed  1  I  had  always  liked  the  rooks,  but  never  so  well 
as  to-night.  And,  remembering  how  God  cared  even  for 
birds,  I  could  bear  to  remember  too  how  Hugo  was  still 
on  his  weary  journey,  worn  out  and  exhausted  perhaps, 
but  still  "cared  for." 

With  a  great  longing  to  be  out  of  doors,  I  put  back  the 
curtains  which  my  mother  had  drawn,  and,  stealing  down- 
stairs, went  out  through  the  withdrawing-room  window, 
and  so  through  the  pleasance  to  the  apple-walk.  It  was 
like  coming  out  of  doors  after  an  illness, — in  part  because 
my  knees  felt  odd  and  shaky,  but  chiefly  because  all  the 
world  seemed  so  beautiful,  and  so  new,  and  so  full  of 


j88  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

things  one  had  never  greatly  thought  of  before.  Most  of 
the  birds  were  a-bed  and  asleep,  but  the  rooks  still  cawed, 
and  a  thrush  sang  its  evening  lay  among  the  trees  at  the 
further  side  of  the  moat.  I  sat  down  on  thegrassy,  sloping 
bank,  and  listened  to  it ;  and  it  seemed  as  though  the  grass 
were  softer  and  greener,  and  the  water  clearer,  and  the 
sunset  sky  ruddier  than  ever  before.  All  the  world  seemed 
that  night  to  speak  of  God,  to  cry  out  "  He  is  here  !  He 
is  here  !  "  and  I  knew  that  His  Spirit  was  in  my  heart  too, 
— and  in  Hugo's. 

Sitting  there  beside  the  moat,  my  mother  found  me,  and 
she  too  sat  down  and  listened. 

Then,  when  the  thrush  had  ceased,  I  told  her  of  Hugo's 
love  to  me,  and  mine  to  him, — all  which  she  knew  right 
well  before.  Yet,  for  all  that,  she  would  fain  have  had 
me  tell  her  with  my  own  lips, — and  it  was  better  so,  though 
at  first  it  was  hard.  Not  that  my  mother  said  one  word 
of  rebuke.  But  it  was  somehow  hard  to  put  our  story  into 
words,  and  I  knew  she  was  sorry  that  all  had  gone  as  it 
had.  She  would  fain  have  had  me  yet  a  child.  And, 
thinking  it  over,  I  see  that  it  was  natural.  For  she  knew 
well  what  I  only  begin  to  know, — that  love  means  pain, 
— and  she  would  fain  have  kept  me  for  years  to  come 
content  with  the  home-life. 

One  word  she  let  fall,  too,  about  this  past  month. 

"  I  have  thought  of  you  as  a  child,  little  daughter," 
she  said.  "And  now  I  blame  myself  for  it.  I  blame 
neither  you  nor  Hugo,  but  I  blame  myself. " 

She  thought,  I  know,  of  the  long  afternoons  in  the 
gallery,  when  Evelyn  and  I  had  amused  him.  But,  then, 
how  could  she  know  that  he  was  aught  but  Karl  the  min- 
strel, or  that  we  should  love  each  other  ? 

And  we  agreed  that  it  were  best  not  to  speak  of  this 
even  to  my  sisters,  as  yet  "Only,"  said  my  mother, 
with  such  a  beautiful  smile  on  her  face,  "  when  you  want 
to  talk,  come  to  me,  little  Joyce." 

And  then,  blushing  slightly,  she  told  me  a  little — a  very 
little— about  the  time  when  she  and  my  father  first  loved 
each  other,  she  being  just  my  age.  And  they  were  not 
formally  plighted  to  each  other  for  some  years,  because 
our  grandparents  thought  them  both  too  young.  And 
she  told  me  how  anxious  she  was  before  the  battle  of 
Worcester,  and  of  how  my  father  was  wounded  there, 
and  she  heard  naught  of  him  for  weeks.  Then,  by  and  by, 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  189 

we  walked  back  to  the  house  together.  I  think  I  never 
knew  before  quite  what  my  mother  was.  Is  it  that  Hugo'* 
love  has  opened  my  eyes  to  all  other  love  tee  ? 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A  CONTEST  OF  WILLS. 

He  that  endures  for  what  his  conscience  knows 

Not  to  be  ill,  doth  from  a  patience  high 

Look  only  on  the  cause  whereto  he  owes 

Those  sufferings, — not  on  his  miseries. 

The  more  he  endures,  the  more  his  glory  grows, 

Which  never  grows  from  imbecility, 

Only  the  best  composed  and  worthiest  hearts 

God  sets  to  act  the  hardest  constantest  parts. 

S.  SAMUEL, 

THE  cavalcade  did  not  pass  through  the  village  of 
Mondisfield.  Hugo  watched  anxiously  to  see  whether 
they  should  take  the  turning  to  the  village  at  the  cross- 
roads. They  paused  for  a  minute,  but  only  to  bid  fare- 
well to  Sir  Peregrine,  who  branched  off  there  with  his  two 
serving-men,  returning  to  Longbridge  Hall.  He  bade  the 
prisoner  think  better  of  his  resolution  before  nightfall,  good- 
naturedly  reminding  him  that  he  might  even  yet  ride  into 
London  as  a  free  man. 

' '  Think  better  of  it,  for  your  brother's  sake, "  he  repeated. 
"Tis  but  a  sorry  day's  work  for  him  to  ride  back  with  you 
in  the  stead  of  that  confounded  colonel." 

"I  have  made  my  choice,  sir,  and  must  abide  by  it,' 
said  Hugo,  gravely. 

He  saw  Randolph's  brow  darken  ominously  at  hia 
words,  and  felt  a  curious  regret  as  he  saw  the  Suffolk 
squire  ride  away.  Things  had  indeed  come  to  a  pretty 
pass  when  Sir  Peregrine  Blake  could  be  clung  to  as  a  sort 
of  forlorn  hope — a  protector  !  The  order  of  the  little  corn, 
pany  was  now  changed.  Randolph  motioned  to  the 
second  constable  to  drop  behind,  and  himself  rode  side  by 
side  with  the  prisoner,  talking  across  him  to  the  constable 
Who  held  his  reins.  Hugo  was  oppressed  by  his  pres- 


igo  Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  PS. 

cnce  ;  it  added  not  a  little  to  the  discomforts  of  that 
miserable  ride. 

And  now  they  began  to  push  on  quickly,  for  to  teach 
Bishop-Stortford  before  night  would  need  hard  riding.  On 
past  wayside  cottages  with  thatched  roofs  and  creeper- 
laden  walls  ;  on  past  haymakers  busy  with  their  rakes 
and  pitchforks  ;  on  past  the  region  of  cultivation,  and 
over  a  vast  heathy  plain  with  no  tree  or  shrub  to  give  the 
slightest  shade,  and  the  burning  midsummer  sun  beating 
down  upon  them  mercilessly. 

Randolph  watched  his  brother  very  narrowly.  When 
would  that  strange  look  of  triumph,  that  curious  dignity 
of  mien,  leave  him  ?  What  was  its  cause  ?  Did  it  indeed 
bode  the  ruin  of  all  his  hopes  ?  Did  it  indeed  bespeak 
the  end  of  his  influence  over  the  youth  ?  No,  that  he  could 
not  believe.  Could  the  work  of  a  lifetime  be  undone  in 
so  short  a  while  ?  It  was  impossible,  incredible  f  His 
old  tactics  would  succeed  at  length,  though  possibly  not 
just  yet.  He  should  work  upon  the  sensitive  frame,  and 
so  at  last  regain  his  influence  over  the  rebel  spirit.  And 
in  the  long  run  it  would  prove  all  for  Hugo's  good.  Of 
course  it  was  for  his  good.  He  repeated  this  to  himself 
again  and  again,  pacifying  his  conscience. 

And  so,  though  the  sun  was  intolerable,  and  the  hard 
riding  wearisome  enough  to  the  whole  company,  he 
welcomed  the  discomforts,  trusting  that  they  would  further 
his  own  ends.  The  heat,  which  was  turning  the  worthy 
constable's  skin  to  a  brilliant  copper  color,  which  was 
bringing  wreaths  of  foam  upon  the  necks  of  the  horses, 
this  would  tell  upon  Hugo — would  wear  him  out  as  noth- 
ing else  would.  Already  there  were  lines  of  pain  round 
the  sensitive  mouth.  Endurance  had  never  proved  one  of 
his  characteristics.  He  took  things  quietly  but  suc- 
cumbed very  soon.  Surely,  with  careful  treatment, 
Randolph  could  manage  to  bring  him  to  his  senses  before 
they  reached  London  ? 

And  presently,  sure  enough,  his  scrutiny  was  rewarded. 
He  saw  traces  of  evident  exhaustion  setting  in.  Nor  in- 
deed was  it  wonderful.  Hugo  had  gone  through  much  on 
tie  previous  day,  had  slept  but  little,  and  had  suffered 
flnspeakable  things  both  mentally  and  bodily.  Pain 
dimmed  for  a  while  the  lover's  rapture  which  had  hitherto 
borne  him  up.  His  head  drooped,  the  burning  flush 
passed  from  his  face  and  left  it  unnaturally  pale. 


fJV  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  191 

"Bear  up,  sir, "said  the  constable,  in  a  kindly  voice. 
'  We  are  nigh  upon  a  village  where  there  is  a  decent  inn. 
A  glass  of  home-brewed  will  make  you  another  man. 

Randolph  speedily  interposed,  however. 

"We  can  take  a  bait  there,  an  you  will,  both  for  men 
and  horses,"  he  said,  peremptorily.  "But  my  brother 
shall  not  be  cockered  up  as  though  he  were  a  prince.  He 
shall  feel  that  there  is  a  difference  betwixt  free  men  and 
prisoners. " 

Hugo  did  not  speak,  but  the  muscles  of  his  face  quivered. 
The  pain,  and  the  weariness,  and  the  intolerable  thirst 
were  bad  enough,  but  Randolph's  words  seemed  to  cut 
him  like  a  knife.  Worst  of  all,  he  knew  that  this  starving 
scheme  meant  that  more  pressure  was  to  be  put  upon  him 
to  reveal  what  he  knew  of  Colonel  Wharncliffe. 

The  constable  said  no  more,  and  they  rode  on,  leaving 
the  heathy  plain  behind,  and  passing  on  between  fields 
and  orchards,  until  about  five  o'clock  they  reached  the 
village  spoken  of,  and  halted  at  the  door  of  the  "  Green 
Man. " 

All  save  the  prisoner  dismounted,  Randolph  went  into 
the  inn,  and  the  rest  followed,  leaving  only  one  man  with- 
out in  charge.  Had  Hugo  meditated  escape,  now  would 
have  been  his  time.  But  he  knew  that  escape  was  impos- 
sible, even  had  he  been  in  a  state  to  attempt  it.  And  as 
it  was  he  was  too  much  spent  to  dream  of  aught  but 
obtaining  such  brief  comfort  as  might  be  from  the  shade 
of  the  great  chestnut-tree  which  spread  half-across  the 
village  street,  and  from  the  momentary  respite  from  hard 
riding. 

Randolph  had  judged  quite  rightly,  this  enforced  wait- 
ing at  the  inn-door,  within  reach  of  the  refreshment  he 
needed  so  sorely,  did  make  him  realize  very  keenly  the 
difference  between  freemen  and  prisoners.  Wearily  wait- 
ing, with  the  knowledge  that  in  a  few  minutes  the  mis- 
erable journey  must  be  resumed,  he  closed  his  eyes, 
unmindful  of  the  group  of  children  who  had  already  drawn 
near  to  stare  at  the  unwonted  spectacle  of  a  gentleman 
with  lace  cravat  and  plumed  beaver,  under  the  charge  of 
mounted  constables,  and  wearing  irons  on  his  wrists. 
Their  comments  did  not  in  the  least  disturb  him,  only  after 
a  time  he  became  aware  that  voices  were  whispering 
around  him,  and  he  caught  the  tantalizing  repetition  ol 
the  words  "thirst,"  and  "water."  Was  it  only  the  echo 


I92 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 


of  his  own  thoughts?  or  was  some  fiend  mocking  his 
wants  ?  He  roused  himself  from  the  half-faint,  half- 
drowsy  state  into  which  he  had  fallen.  The  constable 
was  a  few  paces  off  feeding  the  horses,  but  the  voices  had 
been  real  not  imaginary.  Close  beside  him  stood  two 
rosy  village  children,  and  raised  high  up,  as  high  as  their 
little  chubby  arms  would  admit,  was  a  brown  pitcher  full 
of  water.  He  smiled. 

" Is  it  for  me? "  he  asked. 

"Ay,  sir,"  said  the  elder  of  the  two,  shyly,  dropping  a 
curtsey  which  nearly  upset  the  pitcher.  But  the  horse 
was  high,  and  the  children  were  small,  and  Hugo's  fetters 
would  not  allow  him  to  reach  the  water,  not  even  though 
he  bent  low  down  on  the  horse's  neck,  and  not  even  though 
the  children  stood  on  their  tallest  tiptoe.  In  all  his  wretch- 
edness he  could  not  help  smiling  a  little,  but  the  children, 
looking  at  the  white,  weary  face,  were  more  inclined  to 
cry.  At  this  supreme  moment  a  tall,  loosely-made  lad 
slouched  forward ;  it  was  the  village  innocent.  Mutter- 
ing something  unintelligible,  he  took  the  pitcher  from  the 
little  ones,  and  with  a  smile  in  his  wondering  eyes,  which 
for  a  moment  made  the  foolish  face  almost  beautiful,  held 
the  water  to  Hugo's  lips.  To  his  parched  throat  it  seemed 
that  no  draught  had  ever  been  so  delicious,  while  the  kind- 
ness of  these  strangers  touched  him  deeply.  After  all,  the 
world  was  not  so  black  as  he  had  deemed  it.  Men  might 
be  cruel,  but  an  innocent  and  a  couple  of  children  had 
cared  for  him  ;  one  day  he  would  tell  that  story  to  Joyce. 
One  day,  when  he  had  kept  his  last  promise  and  gone 
back  to  Mondisfield.  Yet  how  could  that  ever  be  ?  How 
could  aught  but  life-long  imprisonment  await  him  ?  An 
agony  of  realization  swept  over  him,  but  he  bravely  tried 
to  turn  to  other  thoughts.  And  if  not  here,  then  he  would 
tell  her  that  story — would  tell  her  all — all — in  that  city 
which  lay  ai  the  end  of  the  pilgrim's  journey,  in  which 
she  believed  so  implicitly,  and  for  which  he  also  began  to 
hope. 

At  that  moment  Randolph  emerged  from  the  door  of 
the  inn,  and  strolled  leisurely  towards  his  horse  ;  the 
innocent,  still  regarding  Hugo  with  all  his  eyes,  stood  in 
the  way. 

"Get  out  you  d d  idiot!"  he  exclaimed,  pushing 

him  roughly  aside.  "  What  do  you  mean  by  coming  90 

i  • 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  193 

The  innocent,  with  an  indescribable  look  of  resentment, 
slunk  away,  the  children  took  to  their  heels  and  ran  fof 
shelter  to  the  other  side  of  the  chestnut-tree,  as  though 
this  fine  gentleman  had  been  the  devil  himself. 

"How  now,  Hugo?  "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  mounted  his 
horse.  "Tired  of  your  new  game?  art  willing  to  be  a 
free  man  once  more  ?  " 

"An  you  be  willing  to  make  me  one,"  said  Hugo, 
gravely.  ' '  My  freedom  lies  in  your  keeping,  not  in  my 
own." 

"  Fool !  you  know  right  well  that  you  have  but  to  speak 
one  word,  and  those  gyves  are  off  your  wrists  in  a  twin- 
kling." 

"  And  that  word  I  will  never  speak." 

' '  Ah,  well !  some  folk  love  to  pose  as  martyrs.  We 
shall  see,  we  shall  see  !  Newgate  will  make  you  tell  an- 
other tale,  my  fine  fellow. " 

"  Will  it  be  Newgate  ?  "  asked  Hugo,  startled  out  of  his 
reserve,  and  speaking  in  his  ordinary  tone.  Somehow  the 
name  of  the  jail  made  the  dim,  almost  dream-like  future 
stand  out  with  a  hideous  reality.  Newgate  !  that  hell 
upon  earth  !  Was  he  to  go  there  ?  He  had  at  least  hoped 
for  the  Tower,  the  ignominy  of  which  seemed  far  less 
galling. 

"Assuredly  it  will  be  Newgate,"  said  Randolph,  with 
great  composure.  ' '  Bethink  yourself  what  it  will  be  for 
one  of  your  birth  and  breeding  to  be  herded  with  thieves 
and  murderers,  and  all  the  scum  of  the  City.  Don't  blame 
me  for  sending  you  there  ;  'tis  your  own  doing." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Hugo,  sadly.  "It  is  my  own 
doing. " 

And  with  that  he  fell  into  deep  thought  and  spoke  no 
more,  leaving  Randolph  surprised  and  a  little  softened  by 
his  very  unexpected  reply.  The  elder  brother,  too,  fell 
into  a  reverie,  and  thus  they  went  on  their  way,  leaving 
the  village  behind  them — the  innocent  waving  a  last  fare- 
well to  Hugo,  and  repeating  again  and  again,  in  his  shrill, 
monotonous  voice,  "  God  'ild  you,  sir  !  God  'ild  you  !  " 

Three  more  hours  of  hard  riding  brought  them  near  to 
their  destination  ;  Hugo,  heavy-hearted  and  faint  with 
pain  and  weariness,  felt  a  gleam  of  comfort  as  he  caught 
sight  of  the  gables  and  chimneys  of  Bishop  Stortford,  and 
the  spire  of  St  Michael's  Church.  The  curfew-bell  was 
ringing  as  they  drew  near  to  the  town,  ringing  in  the  close 
IS 


1^4  JN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

of  this  longest  day  in  his  whole  life.  In  the  sky  was.  4 
glory  of  gold  and  crimson  and  floating  purple  cloudlets  ; 
.'he  whole  place  was  suffused  with  the  ruddy  glow  of  the 
sunset,  and  the  lights  which  shone  here  and  there  in  the 
windows  seemed  primrose  pale  by  contrast  The  arrival 
of  the  horsemen  caused  quite  a  commotion  in  the  quiet 
little  country  town.  The  women,  standing  with  theii 
knitting  at  the  doors,  beckoned  to  others  within  the  houses 
to  haste  and  see  this  strange  sight.  A  group  of  urchins 
playing  at  shovelboard  by  the  wayside  paused  in  their 
game  to  stare,  and  at  sight  of  the  galloping  horses,  broke 
out  into  a  noisy  cheer,  waving  their  caps  and  shouting 
with  all  their  might. 

That  was  the  last  straw.  The  hideous  mockery  of  it 
was  more  than  Hugo  could  bear,  and  the  tears  started  to 
his  eyes.  Poor  little  urchins  !  little  they  knew  what  the 
horsemen  whom  they  cheered  so  lustily  had  been  about ! 
But  the  consciousness  that  every  eye  was  upon  him  made 
him  recover  himself  instantly.  Drawing  himself  up,  he 
rode  on,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  and 
only  longing  for  the  rest  and  shelter  which  must  soon 
come. 

At  length  they  reached  the  inn  where  but  a  few  weeks 
before  he  had  slept  with  Randolph  on  their  way  to  Long. 
bridge  HalL  How  different  all  had  been  then  !  How 
gayly  he  and  Randolph  had  spent  that  evening !  How 
little  he  had  thought  of  all  the  danger  that  lay  before 
him! 

A  little  crowd  had  gathered  at  the  inn  door  to  watch  the 
strangers  ;  he  was  keenly  conscious  of  their  comments  as 
the  constable  helped  him  to  dismount.  Giddy,  exhausted, 
hardly  able  to  stand,  he  waited  for  what  seemed  an  eter- 
nity while  Randolph  stood  on  the  step  talking  with  the 
landlord  and  the  chief  constable.  The  burning  color  rose 
to  his  face  as  he  heard  the  words  passed  from  one  to  an- 
other in  the  crowd — "A  traitor  \  "  "One  of  the  conspira- 
tors !  "  "  The  plot !  "  "  What !  will  'a  hang  'im  at  Ty- 


burn !  "     "Ay,  ay,  to  be  sure,  all  of  'emll  swing  for  it ! " 
he  d d  traitor  right  1 "     "Nay,  but  he's  a  fine 


young  spark  too,  'a  will  look  rarely  on  the  gallows-tree  ! 

"Don't  you  heed  them,  sir,"  said  one  of  the  constables, 
a  burly  giant  who  grasped  him  firmly  by  the  arm,  as  much 
with  the  view  of  supporting  him,  as  of  keeping  him  in  cus- 
tody. ' '  Don't  you  heecl  them  !  They're  naught  1  >u t  \j\\~" 


Iff  THE  GOLDEM  DAYS.  195 

Ing  flies.  Their  heads  be  set  round  with  eyes,  so  they 
an  do  naught  but  stare  and  buzz." 

Hugo  smiled,  rather  as  courteously  acknowledging  the 
.nan's  kindliness  than  as  feeling  any  amusement  at  hife 
words.  For  indeed  an  over-driven  horse  may  be  sorely 
teased  by  a  swarm  of  flies,  and  the  staring,  jesting  crowd 
taxed  his  powers  of  endurance  to  the  utmost.  At  length 
came  a  welcome  diversion. 

"  Bring  the  prisoner  forward  !  "  said  the  chief  constable, 
and  Hugo  was  accordingly  marched  in  between  two  of 
the  men,  and  half  led,  half  dragged  upstairs. 

The  landlord  stood  at  the  head  of  the  staircase  ready  to 
usher  them  into  a  bed-chamber,  within  which  Randolph 
was  quarrelling  vehemently  with  the  chief  constable. 

"  Well,  sir,  I'll  not  be  responsible  for  getting  the  pris- 
oner to  London  to-morrow,  if  you  will  have  it  so,"  the 
man  was  saying,  angrily. 

"And  if  you  thwart  my  purpose,"  retorted  Randolph, 
with  a  volley  of  oaths,  "I  tell  you  you  shall  pay  dearly 
for  it.  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  more  about  the  lad 
than  you  do  ?  " 

The  constable  growled  something  inarticulate,  and,  as 
at  that  moment  Hugo  entered,  said  no  more.  He  merely 
examined  the  lock  of  the  door,  bade  one  of  the  men  give 
the  prisoner  what  assistance  he  needed,  and  followed  the 
landlord  to  another  room.  Randolph  lingered  a  minute, 
watching  Hugo  keenly,  as  he  tried  to  take  off  his  broad- 
brimmed  hat,  but  owing  to  his  fettered  hands,  failed  in 
the  attempt. 

"When  hunger  makes  you  change  your  mind  you  can 
send  me  word,"  he  said,  with  a  mocking  smile. 

Hugo  made  no  reply. 

' '  Till  then  I  will  wish  you  good-evening.  Be  ready 
to  start  to-morrow  at  seven  of  the  clock." 

Still  Hugo  kept  silent. 

"  Do  you  hear  what  I  say  ? "  asked  Randolph,  sharply. 

"  I  shall  be  ready  at  seven  of  the  clock,"  returned  Hugo, 
with  an  unmoved  face. 

Randolph  left  the  room,  feeling  curiously  repulsed  and 
surprised.  That  Hugo,  who  had  been  hitherto  so  plastic 
in  his  hands,  should  suddenly  develop  this  dignity  of  en- 
durance, this  strength  of  resistance,  was  to  him  utterly 
unaccountable. 

Truth  to  tell  the  dignity  did  not  last  long,  for  no  soonei 


46  tH  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

had  his  brother  left  him,  than,  with  a  groan  of  irrepressible 
suffering,  he  fell  back  into  the  nearest  chair,  too  wretched 
even  to  heed  the  presence  of  the  constable. 

"Come,  sir,"  said  the  man,  "keep  up  your  heart 
Them  buzzing  flies  below  know  naught  of  the  truth.  I'd 
not  heed  them  were  I  in  your  shoon." 

"  I  care  naught  for  them  !  "  said  Hugo.  "  But  he — he 
is  my  brother — my  brother,  I  tell  you  !  I  care  for  naught 
else  !  " 

"Tis  a  hard  case,"  said  the  man,  genuinely  sorry  for 
the  poor  fellow,  who  had  indeed  won  all  hearts  by  his 
conduct  in  the  morning.  "But  belike,  sir,  it  will  turn 
out  better  than  you  fear.  I  can't  bring  you  supper,  for 
'tis  against  my  orders,  but  an  you  will  I  can  help  you  off 
with  your  boots  and  things.  A  man's  but  a  babe  in  such 
fetters  as  these." 

He  was  a  rough  nurse,  but  a  kindly  one,  and  kept  up  a 
perpetual  flow  of  conversation,  with  the  view  of  keeping 
his  prisoner's  thoughts  off  the  graver  questions  which 
were  likely  to  haunt  him. 

"  And  as  to  imprisonment  for  life  ! "  he  remarked,  cheer- 
fully, when  he  had  seen  Hugo  to  bed  and  was  about  to 
lock  him  up  for  the  night,  "as  to  imprisonment,  it  ain't 
so  bad  as  folk  think  for.  Your  honor  is  over  young  to 
have  left  a  sweetheart  behind  him,  and  lor'  bless  you  ! 
life  in  Newgate  is  none  so  strict,  you'll  find  many  a  buxom 
wench  there." 

The  incongruity  of  this  worthy  man's  comfort  touched 
Hugo's  sense  of  the  ridiculous.  Just  because  the  words 
were  such  a  mockery,  just  because  they  good-naturedly 
and  unthinkingly  enough  touched  on  so  sore  a  subject, 
*hey  affected  him  as  nothing  else  on  earth  could  have 
done  at  that  moment, — he  burst  into  a  violent  paroxysm 
of  laughter.  He  was  locked  up  securely  ;  he  was  looking 
forward  to  nothing  but  a  life  of  privation  and  misery ;  he 
was  ill,  and  weary,  and  sore  at  heart,  and  yet  he  laughed 
till  the  old  four-post  bed  shook,  laughed  till  wrath  at  his 
own  laughter  checked  him,  and  at  length  brought  him 
once  more  to  a  state  of  sober  exhaustion. 

Down  below  he  could  hear  a  noisy  party  at  their  sup- 
per ;  more  than  once  he  could  distinguish  Randolph's 
voice  in  boisterous  merriment.  This  tended  more  than 
anything  to  sober  him  once  more,  and,  recollecting  how 
much  yet  depended  on  bis  strength  of  purpose  and 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS,  197 

mined  resistance,  he  resolutely  turned  from  all  thoughts, 
and  almost  by  an  effort  of  will  made  sleep  visit  his  weary 
brain.  The  burly  constable  had  as  much  as  he  could  do 
to  wake  him  the  next  morning. 

"  God  help  us  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Tis  surely  but  babes 
and  sucklings  that  sleep  so  sound.  Supperless  to  bed,  too  I 
An  I  mistake  not,  your  honor  is  as  innocent  of  this  plot 
as  the  unborn  babe. " 

"I  knew  naught  of  any  plot, — naught !"  said  Hugo, 
emphatically.  And  it  was  some  comfort  to  him  to  feel 
sure  that  the  man  believed  him.  It  was  the  only  comfort 
he  was  to  have  that  day,  which  proved  a  very  hard  one. 
Leaving  Bishop-Stortford  behind  them  early  on  that  sum- 
mer morning,  they  rode  on  to  London,  in  the  same  order 
as  before,  Hugo  between  the  chief-constable  and  Ran- 
dolph. Not  a  word  had  passed  between  the  brothers. 
But  Randolph  was  able  to  gauge  very  accurately  his 
chances  of  success.  They  were  great.  He  felt  far  more 
hopeful  than  on  the  previous  evening.  Had  it  not  been 
for  this,  the  dreary  ride  would  have  been  less  tolerable  to 
him,  for  the  chief-constable  was  so  wroth  with  him  for 
his  harshness  to  his  brother,  that  he  could  make  nothing 
of  him  as  far  as  conversation  went,  and  it  was  against 
his  policy  to  speak  to  Hugo.  Indeed  the  prisoner  was 
almost  past  speaking.  Only  once  did  he  make  any  re- 
mark. It  was  as  they  were  riding  past  the  Rye-House, 
He  looked  up  curiously  at  this  place,  the  name  of  which 
must  be  forever  hateful  to  him.  High  walls,  a  battle- 
mented,  turreted  house,  with  two  oriel  windows,  green 
trees  close  beside  it  waving  in  the  summer  wind,  and  be- 
yon^cHhe  river  Lea  winding  its  tranquil  course  through 
level  green  meadows.  An  innocent-looking  place  enough ! 
Had  it  indeed  been  the  scene  destined  for  so  treacherous 
a  murder?  Or  was  this  plot  but  a  device  of  the  enemies  ? 
Would  it  prove  a  mere  ruse,  like  the  Meal  Tub  Plot  ? 

"  There  is  the  place  that  has  got  you  into  trouble,  sir," 
said  the  chief-constable,  with  a  smile.  "  But  belike  you 
know  it  too  well  to  need  my  showing." 

"  I  never  heard  aught  of  it  till "  Hugo  broke  off  ab- 
ruptly, aware  that  Randolph  was  listening,  and  thankful 
that  he  had  checked  himself  in  time  and  had  not  added, 
'The  day  before  yesterday." 

But  the  consciousness  that  he  had  nearly  been  betrayed 
into  a  piece  of  indiscretion  troubled  him  not  a  little.  It 


Ijg  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

was  so  hard  to  be  on  his  guard  at  every  turn.  Far  harder 
to-day  than  it  had  been  on  the  preceding  day.  He  was 
suffering  more  acutely  from  the  effects  of  the  merciless 
flogging ;  he  was  weakened  by  hunger  and  fatigue,  he 
was  parched  with  thirst ;  his  heart  failed  him  at  the 
thought  of  the  eighteen  miles  which  yet  lay  between  them 
and  London.  And  yet,  even  though  the  journey  was  so 
wearisome,  the  end  was  more  to  be  dreaded  than  all ! 
Thinking  of  that,  he  would  have  been  willing  indefinitely 
to  prolong  this  ride, — the  last  ride  he  was  ever  likely  to 
take  !  Life-long  imprisonment  1  Good  heavens  !  why 
had  he  been  endowed  with  an  imagination  ?  How  horri- 
ble were  the  vivid  picture*  which  rose  before  him  !  And 
the  vorld  was  so  beautiful  I  Nature  so  fair  !  The  rapture 
of  '  leafy  June"  thrilled  through  him  with  that  bitter- 
sweet consciousness  which  belongs  by  right  to  last  times. 

They  rode  on  through  the  long,  straggling  village  of 
Edmonton,  on  over  Stamford  Hill,  where  he  half  hoped 
that  they  might  be  waylaid  by  the  highwaymen  who  often 
resorted  there.  Surely  then  he  might  make  one  last  effort 
at  escape.  But  no  highwaymen  appeared ;  the  party  of 
horsemen  rode  on  unmolested.  And  now  they  were  in 
sight  of  London  itself,  now  his  last  ride  was  almost  at  an 
end,  his  parting  with  Randolph  drawing  near.  It  felt  to 
him  like  some  hideous  nightmare.  Was  he  indeed  the 
same  Hugo  who  had  ridden  forth  on  that  May  morning, 
stifling  all  anxiety  and  laying  aside  all  care  in  the  mere 
joy  of  existence  ?  Could  a  few  weeks  change  one's  very 
nature  and  upset  one's  whole  world  ?  Now  once  more 
he  rode  through  the  same  streets  with  shameful  fetters  on 
his  wrists,  with  the  burden  of  another's  safety  in  his  keep- 
ing, with  naught  before  him  but  shame  and  suffering. 

On  through  Bishopgate  Street  Without  and  Within,  up 
Cornhill  among  the  crowds  of  staring  passengers  ;  until, 
rather  to  his  surprise,  he  was  suddenly  halted  at  an  inn 
not  far  from  the  "Standard."  What  it  was  for  he  was  too 
dazed  and  weary  to  make  out,  but  the  constable  helped 
him  from  his  horse  and  led  him  in  ;  he  was  borne  unre- 
sistingly through  passages  and  up  and  down  steps,  and 
finally  left  in  a  private  sitting-room  with  no  word  of  ex- 
planation. Bewildered,  but  too  miserable  to  try  to  think 
clearly,  he  heard  the  door  locked  from  without,  stood  still 
for  a  minute  in  a  sort  of  stupefaction  then  staggered 
across  the  room  to  an  oaken  settle,  upon  which  he  sank 


IN  THE  GO^U^N-  DAtS.  199 

prone.  He  was  vaguely  conscious,  that  through  the  open 
window  sounds  of  horses'  hoofs  and  of  passengers  floated 
in,  and  above  all  there  rang  the  shrill,  clear  tones  of  a 
woman's  voice  calling  "  Strawberries,  ripe  strawberries  I  " 
The  high,  bell-like  notes  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  then 
gradually  grew  fainter  again  till  they  died  away  in  the 
distance.  Presently  a  much  nearer  sound  startled  him 
back  from  semi-consciousness ;  the  key  turned  in  the 
lock,  the  door  opened,  and  Randolph  entered.  Startled, 
wholly  unfit  for  an  interview  with  his  brother,  his  heart 
beat  so  fast  that  it  half  suffocated  him. 

"  For  God's  sake  give  me  some  water !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"My  poor  lad,"  said  Randolph,  in  his  kindest  voice, 
taking  no  notice,  however,  of  his  request,  "you  are  quite 
worn  out ;  and,  if  you  go  to  Newgate  in  such  a  state,  you 
will  be  down  with  jail  fever  before  many  days  are  over." 

"I  can't  help  that,"  said  Hugo  shortly. 

"Ay,  you  can  help  it,  and  for  my  sake  you  must  help 
it  1 "  said  Randolph,  with  real  earnestness  in  his  tone. 
"  Do  you  think  I  care  naught  for  you?  Do  you  think  it 
has  not  tortured  me  to  find  you  turned  against  me — to 
find  you  thus  thwarting  me  ?  Come  back  to  me,  lad,  ere 
it  is  too  late.  All  shall  be  forgiven  and  forgotten.  The 
King  will  reward  you — I  will  reward  you  ;  half  the  estate 
shall  be  yours,  and  you  shall  be  to  me  the  most  trusted, 
the  most  loved  in  all  the  world," 

Never  had  Hugo  heard  such  words  from  his  brother, 
never  had  his  love  revealed  itself  as  now  in  look  and  tone ; 
the  blind  devotion,  the  unfailing  loyalty  of  a  lifetime  had 
been  nourished  on  the  poorest  fare.  As  a  child  a  rough 
caress  had  kept  him  happy  for  days  ;  but  such  events  had 
been  rare  indeed.  He  recalled  them  vividly  just  because 
they  had  been  so  infrequent.  Then  in  later  life  Randolph 
had  been  stern  and  exacting,  only  on  rare  occasions  he 
would  drop  a  few  words  of  praise  or  of  approval,  and  thus 
bind  Hugo  to  him  with  the  ardent,  unquestioning  loyalty 
which  asked  so  little  and  gave  so  much. 

And  now  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  this  stern,  hard 
man  unbent,  humbled  himself,  pleaded  with  one  whom 
he  had  hitherto  peremptorily  commanded,  and  in  the  most 
dangerously  tempting  way  exerted  again  all  his  influence 
on  the  susceptible  nature  which  till  now  he  had  kept  in 
slavery. 

A  curiously  fascinating  smile  stole  over  his  strong  fac«, 


Z00  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

lit  up  the  usually  cold  eyes,  and  flickered  about  the  hard 
mouth. 

"You  are  faint  and  hungry — oh,  very  hungry  !  I  know 
all  about  it.  And  I  am  dying  to  feed  you,  Hugo.  Come, 
you  have  withstood  me  far  too  long.  But  I'll  forgive  all, 
for  you  have  shown  what  mettle  you  are  made  of.  Only 
delay  no  more.  Your  are  almost  fainting  ;  I'll  get  you  a 
cup  of  sack — but  see,  just  sign  this  paper  first,  and  then 
all  will  be  well,  and  naught  shall  come  betwixt  us  more." 

A  vague  delicious  hope  stole  over  Hugo.  Might  there 
be  some  1  jophole  of  escape — some  permissible  compro- 
mise. He  took  the  paper  in  his  hands,  and  with  some 
difficulty  read  it.  Had  he  not  been  acquainted  with  legal 
phraseology,  it  would  have  hopelessly  baffled  him ;  but 
as  it  was,  he  made  out  that,  Wrapt  up  in  many  words  and 
obscured  by  rambling  sentences,  the  document  was  noth- 
ing less  than  a  declaration  that  he  would  reveal  all  that 
might  be  of  service  in  unravelling  the  plot.  It  was  put 
in  a  very  ambiguous  way,  but  that  was,  he  felt  convinced, 
the  drift  of  the  whole  thing. 

He  fell  back  into  his  former  position,  and  thought,  or 
rather  struggled  to  think.  His  brain  reeled.  A  wild  con- 
fusion of  possibilities  seemed  to  crowd  around  him. 
Randolph,  in  the  meanwhile,  produced  a  goose  quill  and 
an  ink-horn,  and  drew  a  small  oaken  table  forward. 

"Come,"  he  said,  patting  his  head  caressingly,  "you 
are  so  weary,  dear  old  fellow,  you  scarce  know  whether 
you  are  on  your  head  or  your  heels.  Make  haste  and  sign 
this.  Then  we  will  come  home,  and  Jerry  shall  see  to 
you.  Come,  lad,  'tis  your  duty  to  both  King  and  country 
— no  private  considerations  can  weigh  against  those  two. 
Were  it  such  a  preposterous  thing  to  do,  think  you  I  should 
ask  it  of  you  ?  Come,  sign,  and  trust  one  who  loves  you 
better  than  you  think  for." 

Once  again  it  was  Joyce  on  one  side,  with  independence 
and  conscience-hearkening,  and  Randolph  on  the  other, 
with  obedience  and  lawful  authority  !  It  was  the  new 
strength  against  the  incalculable  power  of  old  association 
and  the  habits  of  a  lifetime.  If  only  Randolph  would  not 
look  at  him  with  such  kind  eyes  !  If  only  he  would  once 
more  treat  him  harshly  !  Right,  duty,  which  way  did  they 
point  ?  Ah  !  yes  ;  but,  even  if  he  knew,  could  he  obey  ? 
Fiends  seemed  dragging  him  down,  dowii,  into  a  peace 
which  he  knew  would  prove  bondage.  A  hideous  con- 


/If  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  2O1 

fusion  reigned  within  him.  Right!  was  there  such  a 
thing  at  all  ?  Would  not  expediency  prove  the  safest  rule 
of  life  ? 

"Ah,  God!  God!  the  spirit  to  think  and  do  always 
such  thii.gs  as  be  rightful ! " 

Tue  words,  mechanically  repeated  by  him  day  by  day, 
no  /  rose  in  a  bitter  cry  from  his  soul.  In  his  anguish  he 
called  for  help  as  though  on  a  fellow-being. 

"Come,  lad,"  said  Randolph,  smiling  kindly,  "sign 
and  have  done  with  it.  Delay  o  are  dangerous." 

"Yes,"  said  Hugo,  springing  to  his  feet  with  an 
energy  that  amazed  his  brother — "yes,  they  are  in  truth 
dangerous  !  " 

He  tore  the  paper  in  half,  he  tore  it  again  and  again, 
he  flung  the  fragments  from  him  as  though  they  had  been 
polluted. 

"There  is  my  answer,  and  I  have  no  more  to  say; 
now  do  your  worst  1  " 

There  was  a  breathless  pause.  The  two  brothers  stood 
facing  each  other,  a  deep  dark  flush  spread  over  the  face 
of  the  elder — the  wrath  of  a  strong  man  baffled,  the  hatred 
of  a  tempter  foiled,  gleamed  in  his  eyes  ;  the  younger,  his 
gaze  fixed  on  his  guardian's  face,  grew  each  instant  paler 
and  paler,  as  though  the  struggle  to  resist  that  fiendish 
temptation  were  robbing  him  of  life  itself. 

"  By  my  troth  !  "  said  Randolph  at  length,  in  a  low  pas- 
sionate voice,  "  you  shall  have  your  fool's  choice  I  I  will 
do  my  worst !  " 

Hugo's  lips  parted  as  though  he  would  fain  have  spoken, 
but  no  words  came.  He  made  a  step  forward,  and  a 
gesture — was  it  of  entreaty,  or  was  it  merely  for  physical 
help  ?  That  would  remain  forever  unknown,  for  he  fell 
senseless  to  the  ground.  Randolph  bent  for  an  instant  over 
the  inanimate  form,  then  strode  to  th«  door,  once  more 
returned,  once  more  looked  anxiously  at  the  ashy  face, 
hesitated  a  moment,  then,  with  a  fearful  oath,  turned ttway 
and  left  the  room,  locking  the  door  behind  him. 


UT  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS- 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A  TERRIBLE   NIG  HT. 

Come  sleep,  oh,  sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peaces 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
The  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low; 
With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out  the  prease 
Of  those  fierce  darts  despair  at  me  doth  throw  • 
Oh,  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease ; 
I  will  good  tribute  pay  if  thou  do  so. 

SIR  PHILIP  SYDWEY. 

THE  horses,  still  bearing  the  marks  of  hard  riding,  stood 
In  waiting  at  the  door  of  the  inn.  There  was  a  confusion 
of  many  voices,  many  feet,  many  wheels,  and  many 
street  cries.  Hugo  was  vaguely  conscious  of  it  all  as  he 
was  led  forth.  Another  high  clear  voi(  e  was  calling, 
"Strawberries,  ripe  strawberries  !  " 

A  plaintive  looking  girl  was  trailing  along  with  a  large 
basket  calling  "Rosemary  and  briar!  rosemary  and 
briar ! " 

"What!"  exclaimed  one  and  another  in  the  group 
gathered  to  watch  the  horses.  "  One  of  the  plot  men, 
say  you?"  "A  Rye-House  man!"  "A  rogue!"  "A 
traitor  !  "  "  Lord  save  us  ?  but  he's  a  fine  young  spark  ! " 
"Look  you,  there  he  comes.  Rare  and  pale  too,  one 
would  a  thought  they  had  most  racked  un."  "  Lord  love 
ye,  they  can't  put  un  to  the  torture  now  !  not  except  in 
Scotland  with  Lauderdale."  "But  a  stripling  he  be; 
naught  but  a  stripling  !  "  "  Down  with  all  traitors,  say  I 
—and  long  live  the  King  !  " 

This  led  to  a  small  outburst  of  loyalty,  and  amid  a  storm 
of  mingled  cheers  and  groans,  and  a  shower  of  stones  and 
refuse  from  which  the  burly  constable  did  his  best  to 
shelter  the  prisoner,  Hugo  was  led  off  in  the  direction  of 
Newgate. 

And  now  they  had  left  Cornhill  behind  them,  and  were 
making  their  way  through  crowded  Cheapside.  Now  they 
caught  a  passing  glimpse  of  the  busy  masons  and  builders 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  203 

at  work  on  new  St.  Paul's,  and  now  gloomy  Newgate  Street 
lay  before  them.  At  last  the  grim  pile  itself  loomed  into 
sight ;  they  paused  before  the  grisly-looking  gate.  Hugo 
was  dimly  aware  that  the  burly  constable  carried  in  his  be- 
longings,— the  valise  which  had  been  left  at  Longbridge 
Hall,  and  the  lute  case.  He  wondered  what  would  become 
of  them,  he  vaguely  wondered  what  would  become  of  him- 
self ;  he  followed  mechanically,  a  constable  on  each  side 
of  him,  and  the  chief  constable  in  advance,  while  an 
official  took  them  into  a  small  room,  where  the  governor 
of  Newgate  was  waiting  to  interview  them.  It  was  only 
by  an  intolerable  effort  that  he  roused  himself  sufficiently 
to  answer  the  questions  which  were  put  to  him.  Then 
after  a  few  minutes  the  men  who  had  hitherto  been  his 
guardians  prepared  to  leave.  He  roused  himself  again, 
bade  them  good-day,  and  thanked  them  for  their  courtesy. 
He  became  conscious  that  he  was  alone  in  this  horrible 
place, — that  his  last  friends  had  left  him — that  Randolph 
had  finally  deserted  him  and  that  he  was  at  the  mercy  of 
a  brute. 

The  governor  regarded  him  fixedly  for  a  minute,  evi- 
dently taking  his  measure.  Then  he  made  an  entry  in  a 
large  book  upon  the  table,  and  struck  a  bell  which  stood 
beside  him,  upon  which  an  official  appeared  at  the  dooi. 

"Twenty-pound  fetters,"  said  the  governor,  "  and  one 
of  the  prisoners  to  rivet  them. " 

The  man  disappeared,  — Hugo  stood  motionless,  the  ex- 
pression of  his  face  not  one  whit  altered  The  governor 
regarded  him  again  and  yet  more  keenly.  "Cool  cus- 
tomer," he  remarked,  "  will  need  discipline  !  " 

The  door  opened  again,  a  jailer  entered,  a  man  with 
small  twinkling  eyes  and  shaggy  hair,  carrying  the  keya 
of  his  office.  He  was  followed  by  a  much  more  repulsive- 
looking  prisoner,  who  bore  the  heavy  irons  which  the 
governor  had  ordered.  Without  a  word  Hugo  submitted 
to  necessity  and  allowed  the  chains  to  be  riveted  upon  his 
ankles.  Just  at  the  time  he  minded  the  touch  of  the  dirty 
prisoner's  hands  more  than  the  irons  themselves.  Mean- 
while the  governor  was  giving  directions  to  the  jailer, 
and  Hugo  saw  a  gleam  of  fiendish  amusement  pass  over 
the  features  of  the  prisoner  who  was  still  busy  with  his 
fetters.  ^  This  somewhat  nettled  him,  stung  into  life 
his  desire  for  resistance.  He  faced  round  upon  the 
governor. 


204  Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  FS. 

"  What  right  have  you  to  load  me  with  irons  before  trial 
»ir?"  he  asked,  with  far  more  strength  and  fire  in  his  man- 
ner than  the  man  had  given  him  credit  for. 

"Right!"  roared  the  governor,  with  a  brutal  laugh. 
' '  Odds-fish  1  to  hear  the  young  spark  !  Why,  bless  you! 
young  innocence,  you've  no  '  right '  in  Newgate  I  " 

"  How  about  the  Habeas  Corpus  Act,  sir?  "  said  Hugo, 
calmly. 

The  governor  smiled,  but  more  respectfully. 

"Ah,  'tis  true,  you  have  me  there,  young  sir.  There  is 
that  cursed  Habeas  Corpus,  and  a  bad  day  it  was  for 
merry  England  when  that  was  made  law — defrauding 
honest  jailers  of  their  due,  and  favoring  knaves  and  vag- 
abonds. We  were  better  off  in  Newgate  four  years  ago, 
when  those  meddlesome  Commons  left  us  to  ourselves, 
weren't  we,  Scroop  ? " 

The  jailer  acquiesced  with  a  sardonic  grin — the  gov- 
ernor broke  again  into  loud  brutal  laughter. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said,  after  a  minute,  recovering  him- 
self. "We  waste  time,  and  time  don't  crawl  to  the  gov- 
ernor of  Newgate,  whatsoever  it  do  to  the  prisoners. 
Away  with  him,  Scroop — discipline  and  the  dungeon." 

And  with  this  terse,  alliterative,  and  alluring  sentence, 
Hugo  found  himself  dismissed. 

Scroop  dragged  him  along  interminable  and  dingy 
passages,  the  very  air  of  which  seemed  laden  with  all 
that  was  foul  and  lowering.  When  he  stumbled,  as  he 
very  frequently  did  from  weariness  and  the  weight  of  the 
irons  about  his  feet,  the  jailer  swore  at  him. 

' '  I'd  have  you  know,  sir,  that  there  be  such  things  as 
whips  in  Newgate,"  he  said,  with  a  savage  grin.  "Ay, 
and  prisoners  to  wield  them,  too,  with  right  good  will  on 
their  mates. " 

"I  have  had  enough  of  thrashings  though  for  many 
a  day  to  come,"  said  Hugo  smiling  a  little.  "And  it  is 
scarcely  reasonable  to  growl  when  you  have  laden  me 
with  such  fetters. " 

Something  in  his  tone  made  the  jailer  turn  and  look 
at  him  more  attentively  than  he  had  yet  done.  Brutal  as 
the  man  was,  he  could  yet  perceive  that  the  prisoner  was 
somehow  different  from  any  prisoner  with  whom  he  had 
yet  come  into  contact.  He  swore  no  more,  he  walked 
more  slowly,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  wondered. 
What  was  there  about  this  new-comer  that  appealed  to 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  205 

him  so  strangely  ?  Silently  he  helped  him  down  a  flight 
of  stone  steps,  at  the  foot  of  which  he  paused  to  unlock  a 
narrow  door.  As  it  swung  back,  dismally  creaking  on  its 
hinges,  there  was  a  sound  of  rushing,  thumping,  scram- 
bling within. 

"Rats!"  said  Scroop,  laconically.  "But  they'll  not 
attack  you,  sir,  an  you  leave  them  alone  !  Plenty  of 
garbage  for  them  to  feed  on  in  Newgate  !  "  he  laughed 
grimly. 

Hugo  glanced  round.  The  wretched  little  cell  was 
absolutely  bare,  save  that  in  one  place  the  gray  flagstones 
were  slightly  raised  as  though  to  form  a  bed,  and  another 
stone  was  laid  across  at  the  head  for  a  pillow.  The  walls 
were  reeking  with  damp,  the  atmosphere  was  insufferable, 
what  little  air  and  light  there  was,  came  from  a  small 
grating  which  opened  into  a  passage  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs.  He  was  past  complaining,  however.  He  just 
dropped  down  on  the  stone  bed  without  a  word.  The 
jailer  stood  perplexed — he  was  not  used  to  this  sort  of 
thing. 

"Well,  for  a  hard  bed  your  honor  seems  to  take  it  pretty 
easy  !  "  he  said,  regarding  him  curiously. 

"Water — for  God's  sake  !  "  said  Hugo,  faintly. 

Scroop  hesitated  a  moment,  looked  again  at  him  fixedly, 
and  finally  walked  away,  returning  before  long  with  a 
pitcher  of  water  and  a  hunch  of  bread,  which  he  set  down 
on  the  floor  beside  the  prisoner.  Then  without  another 
word  he  went  out  closing  the  door  noisily  behind  him. 
Hugo  involuntarily  shuddered  as  the  key  grated  in  the 
rusty  lock.  It  roused  him,  however,  and  he  sat  up  and 
drank  thirstily,  then  once  more  fell  back  on  his  stony 
couch  too  weary  as  yet  to  eat,  though  the  bread,  for 
which  a  few  hours  before  he  would  have  given  much, 
stood  on  the  floor  beside  him.  But  the  delay  proved  fatal, 
for  not  many  minutes  after  he  was  roused  from  a  state 
of  stupor  by  the  sound  of  pattering  feet,  and  looking  up 
he  saw  that  three  fat,  brown  rats  were  at  work  upon  the 
bread,  gnawing,  nibbling,  fighting  over  it.  He  found 
himself  idly  speculating  what  they  would  do  when  it  was 
eaten,  but  as  to  moving  a  finger,  driving  them  off,  rescu- 
ing the  bread  or  eating  it  afterwards,  no  power  on  earth 
could  have  made  him  do  it. 

Gradually  the  little  light  that  had  crept  in  through  the 
grating  faded  away,  the  cell  became  quite  dark  j  he  could 


206  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

no  longer  watch  the  rats,  he  could  only  hear  them  and 
occasionally  feel  them  as  they  scampered  about  the  place  ; 
their  noise  kept  him  from  sleeping,  their  frequent  raids 
kept  him  in  an  uncomfortable  state  of  wakeful  suspense. 
One  thing  was  very  clear  to  him  :  the  lifelong  imprison- 
ment, if  it  was  to  be  in  this  cell,  would  not  be  of  very 
long  duration.  He  wondered  whether  death  would  free 
him  that  night ;  wondered  whether  dying  hurt  much, 
wondered  whether  this  strange  sinking,  this  feeling  of 
being  dragged  down,  down,  endlessly  down,  might  per- 
haps be  the  beginning  of  the  end. 

All  at  once  the  sound  of  a  human  voice  made  him  start 
violently.  He  sat  up,  and  tried  to  make  out  in  the  murky 
darkness  where  the  speaker  could  be. 

"  Art  weary  of  life  ?  "  said  the  voice. 

"In  these  quarters,  ay,  verily,"  replied  Hugo. 

"You  can  change  them  this  moment,  an  you  will," 
said  the  voice. 

He  thought  that  it  came  from  the  grating,  and  was 
somewhat  reassured. 

"How  can  that  be?  Tell  me  for  the  love  of  God," 
he  exclaimed. 

"Nay,"  said  the  voice.      "  But  for  the  love  of  gold." 

"Money!"  exclaimed  Hugo.  "Can  that  take  me  out 
this  accursed  place  ?  " 

"It  can  take  you  to  a  dry  and  spacious  room,  and  give 
you  a  bed  fit  for  a  Christian  to  lie  on  ;  it  can  give  you 
food  and  wine,  and  it  can  lighten  your  fetters." 

"Ten  gold  pieces,"  exclaimed  Hugo,  eagerly,  "if  you 
will  but  take  me  hence  !  " 

There  was  a  sound  of  laughter ;  it  was  like  a  mocking 
fiend. 

"Ten  guineas!  No,  my  duck,  you  don't  stir  under 
twenty." 

"Twenty  !  "  Hugo  mused  a  minute.  All  the  money 
he  had  in  the  world  was  the  fifty  guineas  which  Randolph 
had  given  him  at  Longbridge  Hall.  He  must  not  stake 
the  whole  of  this  even  for  his  release  and  better  quarters. 
"Well  then  twenty  guineas." 

"Twenty  guineas  will  but  take  you  to  the  common 
ward ;  'tis  full  to-night,  they  be  packed  close  as  herrings 
in  a  tub  !  " 

"Then  will  I  most  assuredly  stay  here,"  said  Hugo 
resolutely.  He  fell  back  again  on  the  stones. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  2  07 

"But,"  said  the  voice,  "an  you  stay  in  this  damp  hole, 
you're  not  long  for  this  world.  The  toughest  can  but 
stand  it  a  few  weeks.  You're  signing  your  own  death- 
warrant  and  all  for  the  sake  of  a  few  guineas  more  or 
less.  Now  for-  sixty  guineas  I'll  get  you  into  the  press 
yard  where  you  can  live  like  a  prince,  have  your  fine 
friends  to  visit  you  by  day  and  feed  upon  the  fat  of  the 
land." 

"I  can't  pay  it,"  said  Hugo  ;  "  I  haven't  such  a  sum  in 
the  world." 

There  was  truth  in  his  voice.  The  invisible  being 
knew  that  he  must  reduce  his  terms. 

"  Well,  then,  let  us  say  fifty  and  end  the  haggling." 

"Nay,"  said  Hugo,  "'tis  impossible;  leave  me  and 
torment  me  not  further. " 

"Well,  since  you  will  have  it,"  said  the  voice.  Then 
again,  after  a  pause,  "One  more  chance.  There's  the 
castle — fine  airy  rooms,  plenty  of  light,  good  food,  though 
not  so  good  as  the  press  yard ;  I'll  get  you  a  private 
chamber  in  the  castle,  if  you  will  give  me  forty  gold 
pieces. " 

"Agreed  1  "  said  Hugo,  catching  at  the  first  proposal 
which  it  was  really  in  his  power  to  accept.  He  took  the 
sum  named  from  his  purse,  and  Scroop,  hearing  the  chink 
of  the  gold  pieces,  lost  no  time  in  unlocking  the  door  and 
helping  the  prisoner — almost  carrying  him,  in  fact — up 
the  stone  steps  which  led  from  his  dungeon. 

' '  Nat !  "  he  roared,  in  his  stentorian  voice,  ' '  bring  the 
fetters  1 " 

The  vaulted  passage  rang  and  echoed,  dismally  return- 
ing the  last  word.  Nat  came  scurrying  along  with  a 
lantern  in  one  hand  and  his  implements  in  the  other. 
He  w  is  the  same  evil-looking  prisoner  who  had  been  em- 
ployed to  rivet  the  twenty-pound  irons,  and  he  grinned 
derisi  ;ely  at  Hugo  as  he  proceeded  to  release  him  and  to 
fasten  instead  round  his  ankles  a  far  lighter  pair  of  shackles 
in  which  he  could  move  with  very  little  discomfort. 
When  this  was  done  Scroop  took  him  by  the  arm  and  led 
him  along  labyrinths  of  stone  passages,  which  he  could 
but  dimly  perceive  by  the  flickering  light  of  the  lantern. 

"  The  common  debtors '  side  !  "  said  Scroop,  jerking  his 
thumb  in  the  direction  of  a  large  door,  "  and  the  common 
felons  \  '*  He  nodded  his  head  in  the  opposite  direc^ 
tion. 


1 08  Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

Their  course  seemed  to  lie  midway  between  the  two, 
and  Hugo  was  relieved  to  find  himself  in  a  less  noisome 
atmosphere.  Scroop  dragged  him  up  flight  after  flight 
of  stone  stairs,  and  at  length  paused  before  a  narrow  door 
which  he  proceeded  to  unlock. 

"You  may  thank  your  stars,  young  sir,"  he  said,  gloom- 
ily, "  that  I  let  you  out  on  such  low  terms.  Mark  my  words 
many  don't  get  such  quarters  as  these  under  five  hundred 
pounds. " 

Hugo  wondered  what  princely  accommodation  was 
about  to  be  offered  him,  and  was  not  unreasonably  wrath- 
ful when  he  found  that  this  private  room  was  of  the  small- 
est, and  was  fitted  with  three  barrack  beds,  two  of  which 
were  already  occupied. 

He  looked  at  the  two  sleeping  forms.  What  might  they 
not  be  ?  Murderers,  for  aught  he  knew !  Surely  the 
dungeon  and  the  rats  with  solitude  would  have  been  pref- 
erable to  this  ! 

"Tis  over-late  to  see  to  the  bedding  to-night,"  said 
Scroop,  indicating  the  vacant  plank  bed.  ' '  You  will  be 
softer  than  stones,  anyway,  and  to-morrow  you  can  have 
a  flock  mattress,  an  you  like  to  pay  a  crown  for  it  a  fort- 
night." 

The  occupant  of  one  of  the  beds  stirred  a  little,  and 
finally  turned  round  to  look  at  these  disturbers  of  his 
night's  rest 

"  Is  this  what  you  call  a  private  chamber !  "  said  Hugo, 
wrathfully.  And,  with  a  deep  oath,  he  dragged  himself 
across  the  room  and  flung  himself  down  upon  the  barrack 
bed. 

Scroop  regarded  him  for  a  moment  with  a  sarcastic 
grin,  then  shrugging  his  shoulders  left  the  cell  without 
any  further  remark,  locking  and  bolting  the  door  with 
ostentatious  noisiness  which  was  not  lost  upon  Hugo. 

Disappointed  as  he  was  with  his  new  quarters,  however, 
to  be  free  from  the  rats  was  a  great  gain.  His  two  com- 
panions were  silent  enough,  the  room  was  dark,  and 
Hugo,  though  wretched  both  in  mind  and  body,  was  too 
young  to  lie  awake  long. 

He  slept  soundly  for  some  hours.  When  he  awoke  the 
room  was  dimly  lighted  by  the  pale  moonbeams  which 
struggled  in  through  the  small  window.  He  looked  round, 
fancying  himself  at  Mondisfield ;  he  stared  at  the  heavy 
iron  bars  across  the  window,  which  stood  out  black  and 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  209 

hard  against  the  moonlight.  It  was  not  Mondisfield  1 
Where  was  it  ?  With  a  vague  uneasiness  he  started  up, 
but  instantly  felt  the  fetters  upon  his  ankles.  It  was  not 
Mondisfield  !  Good  God  !  it  was  Newgate  ! 

Once  more  he  heard  Randolph's  cold  voice,  "Are  you 
aware  that  the  penalty  for  misprision  of  treason  is  imprison- 
ment for  life  ?"  And  fiends,  voices  seemed  to  take  up  the 
words  and  echo  them  in  a  jeering  chorus,  "  Here  for  life, 
for  life  !  Here  for  life  !  " 

He  sprang  up  in  a  sort  of  frenzy — he  struggled  vainly 
to  reach  the  barred  but  unglazed  window  high  up  in  the  wall 
from  which  the  cool  night  air  blew  in.  He  rushed  at  the 
door,  he  pulled,  strained,  dragged  it,  as  though  by  all  his 
endeavors  it  could  be  induced  to  move  a  hairsbreadth. 
What  was  reason  to  one  who  had  realized  the  meaning  of 
lifelong  imprisonment !  The  door  must  yield !  Were 
mere  wood  and  iron  t<  prove  more  powerful  than  the  pas- 
sionate craving  for  freedom  which  seemed  to  rend  hi; 
being?  Once  more  back  to  the  window,  once  more  a 
perception  that  it  was  hopeless  ;  then  back  to  the  door 
and  the  unavailing  struggle  with  the  merciless  lock,  which 
all  his  efforts  would  not  so  much  as  shake.  It  was  all 
vain — vain  1  And  he  was  here  for  life  ! 

With  a  stii  d  cry,  he  threw  himself  face  downwards  on 
the  floor.  Effort  was  useless,  and  yet  this  awful  craving 
to  get  out  seemed  as  though  its  fierceness  would  kill  him. 
Panting,  exhausted  with  the  bodily  exertion,  and  torn  in 
pieces  by  that  terrible  revolt  against  his  fate,  he  might 
have  lain  there  for  hours  had  not  a  voice  fallen  upon  his 
ears  and  startled  him  into  attention.  Was  it  his  fancy  ? 
Was  it  merely  the  recollection  of  some  psalm  he  had  heard 
at  Mondisfield? 

44  What  if  in  prison  I  must  dwell, 

May  I  not  there  converse  with  Thee  ? 
Save  me  from  sin,  Thy  wrath  and  hell, 

Call  me  Thy  child,  and  I  am  free. 
No  bolts  or  bars  can  keep  Thee  out, 

None  can  confine  a  holy  soul, 
The  streets  of  heaven  it  walks  about, 

None  may  its  liberties  control." 

"Whose  words  are  those?"  he  exclaimed,  quieted  fora 
moment,  partly  because  they  seemed  like  a  message  from 
Mondisfield,  partly  because  there  was  something  soothing 
in  the  rhythm  and  in  the  tone  of  the  voice. 
<4 


2io  Iff  THE  G  OLDEN'  DA  YS. 

"The  words  are  Mr.  Richard  Baxter's, "  said  the  voice. 
"And I,  who  speak  them,  am  one  Francis  Bampfield,  a 
prisoner  for  conscience  sake. " 

With  that  the  speaker  rose,  felt  about  for  flint  and 
steel,  and  in  a  minute  had  kindled  a  rushlight ;  then  he 
came  and  bent  over  the  prostrate  form  of  his  fellow-pris- 
oner. 

"I  heard  not  your  entrance,  sir," he  said.  "I  slept 
soundly.  Is  there  aught  that  I  can  do  for  you  ?  You 
seem  in  sore  distress." 

"Distress!"  exclaimed  Hugo,  half  raising  himself  and 
looking  into  the  face  of  the  old  man  who  bent  over  him, 
"  I  am  in  prison  for  life,  sir — for  life  !  "  He  broke  into  a 
discordant  laugh  which  speedily  changed  to  uncontrollable 
sobbing,  as  he  fell  back  once  more  into  his  former  posi- 
tion. 

' '  I,  too,  am  in  prison  for  Iffe, "  said  Bampfield.  "  Be 
comforted ;  'twill  prove  less  irksome  than  you  think  for. " 

"No,  no!"  cried  Hugo,  starting  up  again.  "You  are 
old,  sir,  or  you  could  not  say  so.  Oh !  for  the  love  of 
God,  sir,  tell  me  is  there  no  hope  of  escape  ?  I  must  get 
out,  or  I  shall  die  !  " 

The  old  frenzy  was  returning ;  once  more  he  rushed 
blindly  at  the  door  as  though  he  would  tear  it  from  its 
hinges.  Bampfield  watched  him  for  a  minute  with  silent 
compassion ;  then,  going  up  to  him,  he  drew  him  away 
with  gentle  force,  which  Hugo  was  in  no  state  to  resist. 

"You  look  both  ill  and  weary,"  he  said,  in  his  quiet, 
measured  tones.  "  An  you  will  put  up  with  it,  my  bed 
is  at  your  service.  Lie  down — slumber  will  do  more  for 
you  than  I  can." 

Hugo's  native  courtesy  returned  to  him,  and  in  a  voice 
which  contrasted  oddly  with  that  of  his  passionate  out- 
break, he  thanked  Bampfield  for  his  kindness,  but  would 
not  hear  of  robbing  him  of  his  bed.  However,  the  old 
man  was  not  to  be  resisted.  He  took  the  law  into  his 
own  hands,  made  Hugo  lie  down,  fetched  him  food  and 
water,  and  forced  him  to  swallow  them,  talking  the  while 
in  a  soothing,  continuous  sort  of  way. 

"Yes,  as  you  say,  I  am  old,"  he  remarked — "old 
enough,  I  trow,  to  be  your  grandsire.  But  you  will 
accord  me  an  old  man's  privilege,  and  hearken  to  my 
experience.  Black  times  you  may  have,  but>  believe  me, 
none  so  black  as  the  first  night  in  jail.  Believe  me,  sir. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  2  \\ 

there  is  naught  so  hard  but  custom  lightens  it  I  speak 
not  from  hearsay  ;  I  speak  that  which  I  know,  having 
been  oft  in  jail,  and  for  long  years.  Men  may  imprison 
your  body,  but  no  man  can  against  your  will  imprison 
you." 

Hugo  was  silent,  musing  over  the  words  which  fell 
strangely  on  his  ear,  since  he  was  not  accustomed  to 
think  much  about  any  such  matters  as  Bampfield  hinted 
at. 

The  old  man  watched  him  keenly,  wondering  what 
crime  had  brought  upon  him  so  terrible  a  punishment. 
The  pure  face  with  its  beautiful  outlines,  the  dark  gray 
eyes  with  their  deep,  thoughtful  look,  did  not  lend  them- 
selves readily  to  the  idea  of  any  crime  at  all.  But  he 
was  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  ask  him  any  question, 
and  indeed  before  long  he  saw  that  the  new  prisoner  had 
fallen  asleep,  much  as  a  child  does  after  an  outburst  of 
passion.  He  did  not  realize  how  wonderful  had  been 
the  relief  of  his  presence,  or  what  an  immense  influence 
his  mere  age  possessed  for  one  of  Hugo's  reverential 
nature.  But  he  felt  strangely  drawn  towards  this  new 
occupant  of  his  prison-cell,  and  unspeakably  thankful  that 
one,  who  would  effect  no  slight  change  in  the  monoto- 
nous life,  bid  fair  to  prove  a  welcome  addition  to  their 
number. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

GRIFFITH  DOUBTFULLY  REGARDS  HUGO. 

Suspicions  among  thoughts  are  like  bats  among  birds;  they  ever  fly  bj 
twilight.  BACON. 

IT  was  broad  daylight  when  John  Griffith,  minister  of 
Dunnings  Alley  Chapel,  Bishopsgate  Street,  awoke.  He 
glanced  sleepily  across  the  prison-cell,  vaguely  wonder- 
ing whether  his  friend  Bampfield  had  yet  risen,  and  per- 
ceiving some  curious  change  as  he  looked,  he  rubbed  his 
eyes  vigorously,  and  looked  again.  Why,  what  was  this  ? 
Instead  of  a  hoary  head  there  was  a  mass  of  curly  light 
brown  hair.  Where  had  his  friend  gone  to  ?  And  who 


212  IN  THE  GOLDEtf  DA  KS 

was  this  new-comer  ?  He  rose  hastily,  but  his  curiosity 
had  to  remain  unsatisfied,  for  he  perceived  that  Bampfield 
was  at  his  devotions  at  the  further  end  of  the  cell,  and 
the  stranger  slept  as  if  nothing  on  earth  would  wake  him. 
Griffith  was  almost  irritated  by  the  sight  of  his  peaceful 
repose.  This  must  be  the  graceless  gallant  who  had 
stumbled  in,  likely  enough  half-drunk,  the  night  before  ; 
he  remembered  the  incident  well  enough  now,  and  he 
remembered,  too,  the  deep  oath  which  he  had  uttered  as 
he  flung  himself  down  upon  the  vacant  bed.  How  he 
had  managed  to  obtain  possession  of  Bampfield's  quarters 
was  a  mystery,  and  Griffith  grudged  them  to  him,  and 
was  not  at  all  inclined  to  wish  this  intruder  welcome. 

"  How  now,  Bampfield ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  the  old 
man  rose  from  his  knees ;  "  have  you  been  sleeping  on 
boards  ?  And  did  this  godless,  drunken  blasphemer  ;lurn 
you  from  your  own  bed  ?  " 

Bampfield  smiled. 

"Gently,  good  friend  Griffith,"  he  said.  "Methinks 
those  epithets  scarce  apply  to  our  new  friend. " 

"  Friend  !  "  said  Griffith,  looking  with  scorn  at  the  gay 
crims  n  doublet  which  the  stranger  had  thrown  off,  and 
the  costly  lace  cravat  which  lay  beside  it  "  Friend  I 
Bampfield !  Nay,  bu  a  godles  Whitehall  idler,  an  I  mis- 
take not  YV.U  slept  last  night  when  he  entered,  but  I  saw 
him  stagger  in,  drunk,  no  doubt,  and  swearing  at  the 
jailer  with  profane  lips." 

"Nay,  he  was  not  drunk,  poor  lad,  but  ill,  and  weary,  and 
half-starved.  Courtier,  idler,  swearer,  he  may  be,  yet  is 
there  a  grace  and  winsomeness  about  him  which  methinks 
is  not  all  court  breeding. " 

"  You  would  see  good  in  every  living  soul  1 "  said  Grif- 
fith, impatiently ;  "I  shall  form  my  own  judgment 
upon  him.  Is  he  like  to  remain  here  long  ?  " 

"  I  trow  that  he  will  outlast  both  of  us,"  said  Bamp- 
field, with  a  curiously  pathetic  smile.  "  We  are  old  and 
gray-headed,  but  yon  poor  boy  is  but  nineteen,  or  at 
most  twenty,  and  he  too,  has  T.felong  imprisonment  to 
face.  I  found  him  heart-broken  last  night,  tearing  and 
straining  at  the  door  as  though  he  would  open  it  or  die. " 

"  Whereupon  you  offered  him  your  bed,"  said  Griffith  ; 
"  and  the  grace  and  winsomeness  of  which  you  speak  did 
not  hinder  the  profane  worldling  from  letting  a  venerable 
man  of  seventy  sleep  on  a  plank  bed." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  213 

"  You  wrong  him,"  said  Bampfield.  "  1  forced  him 
to  take  it ;  nor  could  I  have  slept  after  witnessing  so  sad 
a  scene.  I  had  better  employment." 

"  I  have  no  patience  with  the  rising  generation  ! "  said 
Griffith,  vehemently.  He  could  not  add  that  he  had  no  pa- 
tience with  his  friend  for  spending  half  the  night  in  prayer 
over  the  sorrows  of  an  unknown  stranger,  but  he  relieved 
himself  by  inveighing  against  the  depravity  of  youth  in 
general,  and  of  this  youth  in  particular. 

Hugo,  disturbed  by  the  voices,  was  struggling  to  wake 
up  ;  he  had  heard  the  last  part  of  the  conversation  in  a 
half  dreamy  state,  and  Griffith's  vehement  generality  made 
him  open  his  eyes.  He  looked  round  and  saw  a  tall, 
gaunt,  gray-haired  man  with  a  stern  and  hard  expression. 
He  was  clad  in  the  habit  of  a  divine,  and  though  he  was 
beyond  doubt  a  very  worthy  man,  and  though  Hugo  was 
quite  aware  of  the  fact,  and  was  concious,  too,  that  he 
ought  to  be  thankful  enough  to  find  himself  in  such  good 
company,  he,  nevertheless,  formed  the  strongest  aversion 
to  Dr.  John  Griffith  at  first  sight 

"  I  wish  you  a  good  morning,  sir,"  said  Griffith,  bow- 
ing stiffly.  "  Had  I  known  that  you  were  in  need  last 
night,  I  should  gladly  have  afforded  you  any  assistance  in 
my  power.  But  you  entered  this  cell  with  profane  words, 
to  which,  I  bless  God,  these  walls  have  not  of  late  echoed." 

Now  in  those  days  swearing  was  a  cultivated  art  ;  it 
was  considered  part  of  good  breeding.  Hugo,  being  of  a 
quiet  nature,  and  more  given  to  thinking  than  to  talking, 
probably  swore  much  less  than  most  men  ;  he  had  indeed 
been  many  a  time  taken  to  task  by  Randolph  and  by  Den- 
ham  for  his  want  of  brilliancy  in  this  respect.  To  be  now 
reproved  for  a  single  oath  under  exceptionally  trying  cir- 
cumstances amazed  him.  Moreover,  he  resented  the  in- 
terference. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  disturbed  you,  sir,"  he  replied,  cold- 
ly. "  As  to  modes  of  speech,  my  tongue  is  my  own." 

He  tried  to  rise,  but  fell  back  again  with  an  irrepressible 
exclamation  of  pain.  Bampfield,  who  had  listened  with 
regret  to  the  words  which  had  t  assed  between  his  com- 
panions, now  drew  near  to  the  bedside. 

"  Are  you  rested  ?"  he  asked,  kindly.  "Nay,  I  see 
you  are  still  but  weary. " 

"  I  have  to  thank  you  for  some  hours  of  forgetfulness," 
said  Hugo,  locking  up  at  him  gratefully. 


214 


THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 


"  Are  you  in  prison  for  crime,  or  for  conscience'  sake  ?  * 
asked  Griffith,  sternly. 

"  For  both,  sir,"  said  Hugo,  flushing  painfully. 

Griffith  regarded  him  for  a  moment  in  silence 

"Thati  impossible  !"  he  said,  with  stern  emphasis. 
"  Impossible,  sir  1 " 

An  indescribabk  look  stole  over  Hugo's  face ;  he 
glanced  at  Bampfield  as  though  to  appeal  to  him  against 
this  hard  verdict. 

"  You  are  still  very  weary  ?  "  questioned  Bampfield 
"  Is  there  naught  that  we  c°n  do  for  you  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Hugo,  frowning  with  pain.  "  I 
am  beaten  almost  to  a  jelly. " 

"  Ha  1  how  was  that?  "  said  Griffith,  with  sudden  in- 
terest, for  he  was  a  doctor  of  medicine  as  well  as  a  divine. 
Then,  his  old  antagonism  to  Hugo  returning — "  But  per- 
haps you  deserved  it" 

""-'he  muscles  of  the  new-comer's  face  worked  convulsive- 
ly ;  this  ruthless  handling  of  an  old  wound  was  hard  to 
bear. 

"  I — did  deserve  it,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  and  there- 
with turned  his  face  from  the  light,  and  was  deaf  to  all 
other  questions. 

Bampfieia  looked  reproachfully  at  his  companion,  and 
Jo^.n  Griiiith,  softened  a  little  towards  the  new-comer,  re- 
flected that  he  might  have  repented  of  his  crime,  and  turn- 
ing away,  began  vigorously  to  make  preparations  for 
breakfast. 

However,  though  Griffith's  question  had  been  heartless, 
it  proved  to  be  exactly  the  tonic  which  Hugo  needed. 
Bampfield's  kindness  had  saved  him  from  blank  despair, 
but  that  sharp,  that  torturing  "  Perhaps  you  deserved  it," 
recalled  to  him  the  past,  and  with  the  hatred  of  the  past  an 
almost  passionate  resolve  that  the  future  shoud  be  very 
different.  What  was  it  that  had  made  him  sink  so  low 
that  night  at  Mondisfield  ?  Love  of  life  had,  in  truth, 
proved  strong,  but  it  was  not  merely  love  of  life  which 
had  made  him  yield.  Had  another  man  held  a  pistol  to 
his  head,  and  given  him  the  choice  between  death  and 
crime,  he  would  have  assuredly  chosen  death.  The 
power  had  lain  not  in  the  pistol,  but  in  Randolph  ;  not  in 
the  mere  thought  of  death,  but  in  the  thought  of  a  violent 
death  at  his  brother's  hands. 

He  had  allowed  himself  to  be  held  in  bondage  by  that 


JN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  21$ 

stronger  nature.  Randolph  had  been  to  him  as  a  god, 
and  he,  by  yielding  with  tame  and  blind  submission,  by 
ceding  to  another  what  he  had  no  right  to  cede — the 
direction  of  his  will  and  his  conscience — had  proved  him- 
self to  be  less  than  a  man.  It  flashed  upon  him  as  a  sort 
of  discovery  that  words  which  he  had  heard  in  a  lifeless, 
mechanical  way,  were  no  poetical  image  but  a  stern 
reality,  a  fact  as  true  for  him  in  the  seventeenth  century 
as,  long  ago,  to  the  listeners  on  the  Eastern  mountain- 
side. "No  man  can  serve  two  masters."  He  would,  to 
begin  with,  forfeit  the  right  to  be  called  "  man"  at  all — 
would  be  a  mere  cipher,  an  incarnate  compromise ;  and 
ultimately  he  must  by  the  very  nature  of  things  give  him- 
self wholly  either  to  one  or  the  other,  either  to  the  right 
master  or  the  wrong.  He  knew  well  enough  that  he 
of  late  vaguely  desired  to  do  right,  that  for  months  he  had 
had  been  also  drawn,  almost  irresistibly,  more  and  more 
under  Randolph's  influence.  He  had  been  sorely  perplexed 
by  the  clashing  of  duties,  but  at  the  fatal  moment  -fcad 
been  quite  well  aware  that  he  had  deliberately  chosen 
amiss. 

It  was  not,  however,  till  this  miserable  morning  in 
Newgate  that  he  saw  all  things  clearly  ;  realized  that  there 
is  only  one  Master  whom  a  man  can  serve  without  sink- 
ing into  degrading  slavery,  only  one  Master  whose 
service  is  perfect  freedom.  The  old  church  prayer  re- 
turned to  his  mind,  the  Latin  version  of  which  had  till 
now  been  an  enigma  to  him — 

"  Quern  nosse  vivere. 
Cui  servire  regnare." 

And  hitherto  he  had  not  "Served,"  but  had  been  dragged 
down  by  the  power  of  circumstance,  hitherto  he  had  not 
"Reigned,"  overcoming  by  virtue  of  the  Truth  and  the 
Right ;  he  had  lived  in  a  despicable  slavery — nay, 
scarcely  lived  at  all,  so  vague  and  misty  had  been  his 
knowledge. 

To  pass  from  a  shadowy  belief  in  a  sort  of  Fetish,  to 
actual  knowledge  of  a  Living  Being,  is  like  passing  from 
death  into  life — like  throwing  wide  a  closed  casement, 
and  letting  the  fresh  air  revive  one  panting  for  breath. 

It  seemed  to  Hugo  as  though  the  purity  of  Joyce,  the 
charity  of  Bampfield,  the  thoughtful  friendship  of  Mary 
Denham,  the  free  forgiveness  of  Colonel  Wharncliffe, 


2T6  i*  THE  GOLDEN  &AVS- 

blended  together  and  helped  him  to  a  vision  of  One 

he  had  vowed  to  serve  manfully  but  had  not  served — -One 

whom  he  had  vaguely  worshipped  but  never  before  known. 

Time,  then,  was  nothing — place  was  nothing  !  Bamp 
field  had  spoken  truly — men  might  imprison  the  body, 
but  here  in  Newgate  one  might  "Know  "  and  "Live," — 
might  "Serve"  and  "  Reign."  He  could  bear  now  to  say 
those  terrible  words  which  last  night  had  half  maddened 
him, — "Life-long  imprisonment," — could  pray  as  he  had 
never  prayed  before  the  words  of  Mary  Denham's  collect. 

He  said  no  more  about  being  beaten  to  a  jelly,  but  got 
up,  eager  to  begin  his  new  life.  He  paused  in  tying  the 
cravat  which  had  excited  John  Griffith's  ire  to  help  that 
worthy,  who  was  in  difficulties  with  a  steaming  saucepan 
full  of  porridge.  He  stifled  his  inclination  to  laugh  at  the 
portentous  length  of  the  grace  which  Dr.  Griffith  pro- 
nounced over  the  very  frugal  meal,  and  he  accepted  Bamp- 
field's  offer  of  hospitality  with  gratitude,  gulping  down  the 
tasteless  and  ill-cooked  food  with  heroic  resolution,  and 
inwardly  debating  whether  he  might  not  in  course  of  time 
improve  upon  Griffith's  cooking,  and  serve  up  porridge 
which  savored  less  of  smoke  and  the  pot. 

"  Is  the  food  supplied  to  prisoners  ?  "  he  asked,  anxious 
to  find  out  what  his  expenses  would  be  in  his  new  abode. 

"A  small  quantity  is  supplied,"  said  Bampfield,  "but 
scarce  sufficient  to  keep  body  and  soul  together.  You 
can,  however,  purchase  what  you  will.  Nowhere  is 
money  a  greater  power  than  in  prison. " 

"Ay,  that  I  discovered  last  night,"  said  Hugo.  "It 
was  not  till  the  jailer  had  cajoled  me  out  of  forty  gold 
pieces  that  he  brought  me  hither  out  of  a  pestilent  dun- 
geon." 

"They  ever  get  heavy  premiums  in  that  way,"  said 
Bampfield,  "  and  even  now  you  will  be  charged  ten  shil- 
lings and  sixpence  rental  by  Scroop,  and  one  shilling  each 
week  by  the  female  who  cleans  the  room  and  makes  the 
fires. " 

Hugo  looked  grave.  But  ten  more  gold  pieces  re- 
mained within  his  purse,  and  if  for  mere  bed  and  lodging 
he  must  pay  fourteen  shillings  a-week  his  resources  would 
ere  long  be  exhausted.  Moreover,  there  would  be  his 
share  in  lights,  and  coals  and  food  to  be  thought  of 
The  money  would  not  last  him  much  more  than  two 
months.  Two  months  out  of  a  life-time  J 


Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  217 

Presently,  when  Griffith  had  retired  to  the  further  end 
of  the  cell  to  prepare  a  sermon,  Bampfield  heard  all 
Hugo's  story  ;  he  heard  ihe  outline  of  facts  that  is,  and 
his  i\ge  and  experience,  together  with  an  innate  percep- 
tion of  the  new-comer's  character,  enabled  him  to  fill  in 
ihe  gaps  which  necessarily  occurred  in  Hugo's  narrative. 
Nor  was  it  difficult  to  imagine  the  extraordinary  ascend- 
ancy which  the  elder  brother  had  exercised  over  the  mind 
of  the  younger.  Puritan  as  he  was,  Bampfield  neverthe- 
less discerned  at  once  that  Hugo  was  one  of  the  artist 
type — receptive,  responsive,  by  nature  a  worshipper  ; 
over  such  a  character  how  easy  it  was  to  picture  the 
mastery  of  a  strong  man,  passionately  loved  He  could 
not  but  hope  great  things  from  one  who  could  break  such 
a  chain,  and  Hugo's  grief  at  the  separation  from  Randolph, 
which  was  more  apparent  by  what  he  left  unsaid  than  by 
any  words  which  he  could  have  uttered,  touched  the  old 
man  deeply. 

"Ay,"  he  said,  "separation  from  kith  and  kin,  in  be- 
lief and  practice,  is  a  hard  thing  to  face,  but  it  is  what 
your  Lord  bore  in  His  life.  '  Even  His  brethren  did  not 
believe  in  Him.'  Many  a  time  those  who  suffer  for  con- 
science sake  will  have  to  heal  their  smarts  with  those 
words. " 

"And you,  sir?"  asked  Hugo.  "Did  you,  too,  have 
this  to  bear?  Tell  me  of  those  imprisonments  of  which 
you  spoke  last  night." 

"  In  good  sooth,  many  are  the  friends  whom  I  have 
lost,"  said  Bampfield.  "  Think  not  that  I  blame  them — 
nay,  oft  times  thinking  over  it  I  blame  myself;  for  did 
we  live  as  we  ought — did  not  our  failings  dim  the  Christ- 
light — let  us  hold  what  opinions  we  would,  folks  would 
be  slow  to  leave  us.  My  tale  is  but  a  short  and  unevent- 
ful one.  I  was  born  of  an  old  and  honorable  Devonshire 
family,  and  was  educated  at  Wadham  in  the  university  of 
Oxford.  My  young  days  were  cast  in  evil  times  ;  I  was 
then  a  loyalist,  and  an  ordained  minister  of  the  Church  of 
England.  My  cure  was  at  Sherbourne  in  Dorsetshire, 
and  there  I  continued  to  read  Common  Prayer  publicly 
longer  than  any  other  minister  in  Dorsetshire,  for  which 
I  incurred  some  danger — it  hath  been  ever  my  fortune  to 
go  with  the  losing  side,  you  see  !  " 

He  smiled,  a  curiously  pathetic  smile,  which  touched 
Hugo. 


9i8  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"At  that  time  I  was  also  Prebendary  of  Exetet 
Cathedral.  It  was  not  till  lately  that  I  found,  as  I  thought, 
many  matters  in  the  Church  which  called  loudly  for 
reformation.  Mr.  Richard  Baxter  was  the  means  of  bring- 
ing me  over  to  the  parliamentary  party,  and  soon  after 
evil  days  began  for  us.  The  King  returned,  the  Act  of 
Uniformity  was  passed,  and  there  was  naught  for  me  to 
do  but  to  quit  both  my  living  and  my  prebend,  being 
utterly  dissatisfied  with  the  conditions  which  it  imposed. 
I  was  from  that  time  forth  a  marked  man,  and  soon  after 
was  apprehended  and  cast  into  jail  for  worshipping  God 
in  my  own  family.  I  smile  now  at  the  remembrance. 
There  were  five-and-twenty  of  us  thrust  into  one  room  with 
but  one  bed  !  However,  we  passed  the  time  peacefully 
in  religious  exercises." 

"And  did  they  keep  you  there  long?"  asked  Hugo, 
with  the  keen  interest  of  a  hearer  who  can  realize  the 
situation. 

"  Nay,  but  a  short  time.  However,  freedom  was  not 
meant  for  me.  I  was  again  apprehended  for  preaching, 
for  refusing  to  keep  back  the  message  entrusted  to  me, 
even  though  this  free  land  had  been  bound  in  slavish 
chains  by  laws  devised  by  Clarendon  and  approved  by 
the  King.  That  time  I  was  in  jail  eight  years.  "Twas 
in  Dorsetshire  jail,  a  gruesome  place  enough." 

"  Did  it  seem  very  long?  "  asked  Hugo,  a  little  huskily. 

"  It  was  long,  yet  I  knew  that  it  was  not  too  long — it 
was  the  training  my  Lord  thought  best  for  me.  More- 
over, no  one  could  hinder  my  preaching  in  the  jail — I 
preached  every  day." 

"And  when  you  were  liberated?"  questioned  Hugo. 

"Then  I  wandered  about  the  country  again  for  awhile, 
gaining  a  hearing  when  and  where  I  could,  but  I  was 
again  apprehended  and  cast  into  Salisbury  jail.  After 
that,  once  more  freed,  I  came  to  London  and  gathered  a 
congregation  first  at  the  chapel  in  Devonshire  Square, 
and  later  at  Pinner's  Hall.  Last  year  I  was  preaching 
there  when  there  broke  in  several  officers,  who  dragged 
me  down  from  my  place  and  carried  me  off  under  guard 
to  bring  me  before  the  Lord  Mayor.  I  was  here  in  New- 
gate after  that  for  a  time,  but  being  released  found  my- 
self in  worse  odor  than  ever,  and  shortly  afterwards,  in 
March  of  this  year,  I  and  my  friend,  Dr.  Griffith,  were 
both  committed  to  Newgate  for  refusing  the  oaths  of 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  319 

supremacy  and  allegiance,  and  here  are  we  like  to  remain 
the  rest  of  our  lives." 

Hugo  mused  for  a  while  in  silence.  The  story  was 
perplexing  to  one  of  his  way  of  thinking,  but  no  one  could 
for  a  moment  doubt  Bampfield's  honesty,  and  what  was 
more,  his  holiness.  He  had  not  yet  seen  enough  of  the 
world  to  realize  that  the  sins  of  any  body  of  men  sooner 
or  later  cause  a  schism  in  that  body — that  the  Church  by 
her  sins  lost  many  of  her  bravest  and  noblest  sons,  and  that 
those  who  outside  her  pale  fought  against  tyranny,  and 
intolerance,  and  maddening  restrictions  were  fighting  on 
God's  side.  Instinctively,  however,  he  honored  the  zeal 
for  truth,  the  scrupulous  conscientiousness  which  the  Non- 
conformists had  shown  ;  instinctively,  too,  he  realized  that 
he  must  avoid  all  controversy,  and  be  content  to  learn 
what  he  could  from  these  two  old  men,  whose  experience 
had  been  so  strange  and  varied. 

Fortunately  the  beautiful  reverence,  which  was  one  of 
his  most  marked  characteristics,  stood  him  now  in  good 
stead,  and  kept  peace  in  the  cell  where  otherwise  there 
must  have  been  discord,  seeing  that  nature  and  nurture 
had  tuned  the  three  so  differently. 

Bampfield  had  only  just  finished  his  story  when  the 
door  was  unlocked  and  Scroop  entered,  followed  by  a 
surly-looking  prisoner,  who  carried  Hugo's  valise  and  lute 
case.  The  jailer  directed  him  to  put  them  down  on  the 
barrack-bed  which  he  had  alloted  last  night  to  the  new- 
comer, and  then  proceeded  in  his  grim  way  to  enlighten 
the  owner  as  to  various  prison  rules  and  regulations. 
Hugo  could  hardly  listen  to  the  fellow,  so  impatient  was 
he  to  open  the  lute  case.  When  at  last  the  jailer  had 
departed,  he  began  to  tear  open  the  straps  and  clasps  with 
eager  fingers,  deaf  to  Griffith's  questions,  and  mindful 
only  of  Joyce.  The  lid  raised,  he  looked  eagerly  in  and 
found,  securely  packed  away  beside  his  lute,  three  books  : 
— a  volume  containing  five  of  Shakespere's  plays  ;  a  copy 
of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  but  recently  published  ;  and  a 
little  edition  of  St.  John's  Gospel.  On  the  fly-leaf  of  this 
last  was  written,  in  a  clear,  but  tremulous  handwriting, — 

"  For  my  dear  love.     They  are  all  the  books  I  have." 

Tears  rushed  to  Hugo's  eyes,  a  passionate  longing  con- 
sumed him  for  one  more  sight  of  Joyce — Joyce,  his  sweet, 
true-hearted  love  !  Joyce  who  belonged  to  him,  and  to 
whom  he  belonged  by  right  of  that  mysterious  union  pf 


220  IV  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

souls  which  no  prison  walls — not  even  the  walls  of  this 
hellish  Newgate — could  sever.  Unable  to  see  the  words 
which  were  to  him  so  full  of  comfort,  he  pressed  the  book 
to  his  lips  and  kissed  it  fervently. 

"Sir,"  said  John  Griffith  sternly,  "I  trust  you  take  no 
rash  oath.  Tell  me,  I  pray,  why  you  thus  irreverently 
press  the  holy  book  to  lips  which  of  late  spoke  profane 
words. " 

"Beshrew  me,  sir,  they  shall  speak  such  words  no 
more,"  said  Hugo,  quickly,  his  rapture  of  love  lending 
him  a  large  generosity,  which  put  up  with  the  doctor's 
interruption,  and  made  his  impatience  of  the  previous 
night  seem  contemptible. 

Bampfield  glanced  at  him  for  a  moment,  a  smile  of 
sympathy  illumining  his  worn  features.  This  new-comer 
was  already  proving  a  blessing  to  him  ;  he  had  brought 
an  atmosphere  of  youth,  and  hope,  and  love  into  the 
dreary  cell,  which  refreshed  the  old  man  greatly  and  re- 
lieved the  weary  monotony  of  the  prison  life. 

On  the  Saturday,  however,  when  Hugo,  somewhat 
cheered  and  already  growing  accustomed  to  his  new 
quarters,  took  his  lute  and  began  to  play,  Bampfield's  con- 
science would  not  permit  him  to  keep  s'ilence. 

"  My  friend,"  he  said,  "this  is  the  Sabbath.  Will  you 
not  keep  it  with  me,  and  lay  aside  worldly  things  ?  " 

Hugo,  who  would  have  done  anything  to  please  the  gentle 
old  man,  at  once  put  by  the  lute  and  patiently  listened  to 
a  series  of  readings  and  discourses,  finishing  with  a  debate 
between  Griffith  and  Bampfield  as  to  the  observance  of 
the  seventh,  or  the  first  day  of  the  week.  But  when,  on 
the  following  day,  Griffith  took  him  sternly  to  task  for 
reading  Shakespere,  he  was  less  patient.  Not  being 
accustomed  to  the  Puritan  method  of  observing  Sunday, 
it  seemed  to  him  intolerable  to  be  required  all  at  once  to 
keep  both  the  rest-day  of  the  seventh-day  Christian  and  the 
rest-day  of  the  Baptist.  It  needed  all  his  innate  courtesy 
to  enable  him  to  pass  the  two  days  in  a  way  which  should 
not  hurt  the  feelings  of  either  of  the  old  men,  and  on  the 
Monday  he  was  so  chafed  and  wearied  by  the  restraint 
that  he  felt  ready  to  quarrel  with  everybody  and  every- 
thing. 

It  was  some  relief  to  be  allowed  to  take  an  hour's  walk. 
One  of  the  privileges  of  this  part  of  Newgate  consisted  in 
tile  possession  of  a  paved  passage  running  between  the 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  221 

outer  wall  and  the  building  itself,  a  dreary  enough  place 
paved  with  purbeck  stone,  and  running  to  a  length  of  some 
fifty  feet  or  more.  It  was  something,  however,  even  to 
be  in  the  open  air,  within  hearing  of  the  life  and  bustle  of 
Newgate  Street,  and  Hugo  walked  up  and  down,  work- 
ing off  some  of  his  weariness  and  despondency  by  the 
help  of  rapid  and  mechanical  exercise. 

As  he  paced  to  and  fro  a  stranger  happened  to  enter  the 
court  at  the  further  end.  Visitors  frequented  Newgate  all 
day  long  in  those  times,  and  consorted  freely  with  the 
prisoners ;  for,  although  the  privations  and  discomforts 
of  prison  life  in  the  seventeenth  century  were  much  greater 
than  in  the  present  day,  there  was  a  sort  of  rude  liberty 
and  license  permitted  which  would  scandalize  the  stern 
disciplinarians  of  our  time. 

The  visitor  was  a  man  who  quickly  arrested  the 
attention.  There  was  something  unusual  about  his  person 
and  mien  which  made  every  one  look  a  second  time  at 
him.  He  moved*  with  a  peculiar  ease  and  dignity,  his 
face  was  calm,  serene,  and  thoughtful ;  he  seemed  to 
walk  the  world  as  an  acute  observer  of  men  and  manners, 
but  there  was  about  him  nothing  of  the  censorious  critic. 
Before  all  things  he  was  sympathetic — in  fact  he  ob- 
served every  one  with  such  deep  sympathy  that  he  practi- 
cally lived  with  them,  seeming  almost  to  lose  the  sense 
of  his  own  personality,  so  deeply  was  he  observed  in  the 
life  around  him.  He  leant  now  against  the  grim  door- 
way at  the  entrance  to  the  paved  yard,  his  easy  attitude 
contrasting  curiously  with  the  gait  of  the  downcast  pris- 
oner, who  tramped  doggedly  to  and  fro. 

Betterton — for  it  was  none  other  than  the  great  tragedian 
— watched  every  motion  of  the  walker,  watched  keenly, 
but  with  that  living  sympathy  which  distinguishes  the 
artist  from  the  scientist. 

A  slight  figure,  clad  in  a  crimson  cloth  doublet,  black 
silk  hose,  and  broad  black  hat,  from  which  trailed  a  long 
yellow  ostrich  feather ;  a  walk  at  once  dejected  and 
desperate,  slightly  uneven,  too,  as  though  the  wayfarer 
were  recovering  from  some  illness  ;  the  head  bent,  the 
eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  the  hands  clasped  behind  him, 
the  iron  shackles  which  hung  loosely  on  the  shapely 
ankles  clanking  dismally  at  each  step.  The  face  he  could 
not  clearly  see,  it  was  hidden  by  the  wide  brim  of  the 
bat,  until  just  as  the  prisoner  had  taken  his  third  turn  up 


»22  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

and  down  some  sound  made  him  look  up  hastily.  Tht 
actor,  to  his  intense  surprise,  saw  before  him  the  strange, 
broad-browed  face,  with  the  great  gray  eyes,  and  the 
indefinable  something  which  raised  it  above  other  faces. 
There  could  be  no  mistake — he  was  certain  that  it  must 
be  the  young  amateur  tenor,  the  favorite  at  Will's,  who 
not  many  weeks  since  had  been  applauded  to  the  echo 
in  very  different  circumstances.  He  stepped  forward 
hastily. 

"Mr.  Wharncliffe ! ''  he  exclaimed,  holding  out  his 
hand. 

Hugo  clutched  at  it  as  a  drowning  man  clutches  at  a 
straw.  To  hear  a  familiar  voice,  to  see  the  well-known 
and  kindly  face  of  Betterton  in  that  dismal  abode  gave  him 
a  momentary  thrill  of  rapture.  He  was  not  long  in  tell- 
ing the  actor  all  his  tale,  and  Betterton  listened  with  that 
sympathetic  silence  which  is  better  far  than  words. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  "  he  said,  at  the  close. 

"Tell  me  first,  an  you  will,  what  arrests  have  been 
made, "  said  Hugo,  anxiously. 

"  Many  warrants  have  been  issued,"  said  Betterton. 
"  But  I  have  heard  naught  of  arresting  any  leading  man 
save  Lord  Russell, " 

"Lord  Russell !  "  exclaimed  Hugo,  in  astonishment 

4 'Ay,  he  is  in  the  Tower  and  to  be  brought  to  his  trial 
shortly, " 

"  And  Colonel  Sydney  ?     Heard  you  aught  of  him  ?  " 

"Nay,  he  is  yet  at  large.  I  saw  him  yesternight,  nor 
have  I  heard  of  his  being  involved  in  the  plot." 

"  God  be  thanked !"  said  Hugo,  his  face  brightening. 
"  You  asked  what  you  could  do  for  me,  sir.  I  should  be 
greatly  beholden  to  you  an  you  would  go  to  Colonel 
Sydney's  house,  see  him  privately,  and  tell  him  all  you 
have  now  heard  from  me." 

"I  will  see  him  with  pleasure,"  said  Betterton.  "And 
at  once." 

"Tell  him,  sir,  that  I  will  not  risk  writing,  fearing  to 
involve  him  in  danger.  But  beg  him  to  send  me  some 
word  of  counsel,  and,  if  it  may  be,  one  of  forgiveness." 

His  voice  faltered,  he  half  broke  down,  but  resumed, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  "Tell  him  I  know  that  I  deserve 
to  be  despised  by  him — that  I  will  bear  it  as  a  just  punish- 
ment if  it  must  be.  But  tell  him,  too,  that  I  would  die 
for  him,  that  I  would  live  in  torture  for  him.  Nay,  tell 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  Kft  223 

him  not  that,  'tis  like  the  false  disciples  who  afterwards 

fled.  Tell  him  no  words  of  mine,  but "  he  grasped  the 

actor's  arm,  looking-  into  his  eyes  with  an  entreaty  which 
Betterton  never  forgot,  "but  make  him  understand" 

"I  will  do  my  best,"  said  Betterton.  simply.  "I  see 
well  what  your  love  for  Mr.  Sydney  is,  and  can  at  least 
tell  him  of  that." 

"  Ah  !  "  broke  in  Hugo,  "you  will  never  know  what  he 
is — never !  He  has  been  to  me  friend,  guide,  teacher — 
well-nigh  father — to  me  who  was  naught  to  him — naught 
but  a  stranger.  My  God  !  and  it  is  such  an  one  that  men 
deem  cold  and  harsh — a  traitor — one  to  be  hunted  from 
the  land  he  loves  !  " 

"  Time's  up,  sir  !  "  shouted  a  grim  voice. 

The  agitation,  the  light  of  love  and  devotion  died  out 
of  Hugo's  face,  and  a  stern  look  settled  down  upon  his 
features. 

"  Farewell, "  he  said,  grasping  Betterton's  hand  "  Fare* 
well,  and  thank  you." 

Then  with  a  curious  dignity  of  obedience  he  followed, 
his  imperious  jailer,  and  disappeared  within  the  gloomy 
pile. 

The  actor  watched  him  out  of  sight,  brushed  away  a 
tear  from  his  eyes,  and  left  the  prison  yard  looking  graver 
than  when  he  entered  it 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

SYDNEY   AND   BETTERTON, 

WILL.—- I  pray  you,  what  thinks  he  of  our  estate  ? 
KING  H.— Even  as  men  wrecked  upon  a  sand,  that  look  to  be  washed 
off  the  next  tide. 

King  Henry  V. 

IT  is  a  curious  fact,  but  a  fact  borne  out  by  the  experi- 
ence of  most  people,  that  the  great  actors  in  the  drama 
of  life,  the  characters  who  take  the  leading  parts  and  the 
difficult  roles,  are,  as  a  rule,  calmer  and  quieter  in  face  of 
peril  and  in  time  of  commotion  than  the  lesser  men  who 
play  humbler  parts,  and  who,  while  involved  in  slighter 


124  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

risk,  seem  to  be  much  more  troubled  about  it  On  that 
bright  summer  morning  which  followed  Betterton's  visit 
to  Newgate  most  men  in  any  way  connected  with  the 
Whig  party  were  conscious  that  they  were  treading  on  the 
brink  of  a  volcano.  The  bravest  could  not  but  be  appre- 
hensive at  such  a  time  ;  the  most  courageous  found  it 
hard  to  live  quietly  on  in  their  homes  knowing  that  at  any 
moment  a  pretext  might  be  made  for  issuing  a  warrant 
against  them.  The  country  was  stirred  to  its  depths  by 
the  news  of  the  plot ;  panic  reigned  supreme.  Yet  in 
Algernon  Sydney's  study  all  was  calm  enough  on  that 
Tuesday  morning,  the  26th  of  June. 

The  calmness  struck  Bet  erton  not  a  little  when,  ushered 
in  by  Ducasse,  he  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  the 
Republican.  The  room,  somewhat  meagrely  furnished, 
seemed  to  bear  the  owner's  history  stamped  upon  it  It 
was  lacking  in  the  grace  and  neatness  and  comfort  betok- 
ening womanly  care.  In  the  prevailing  shabbiness  there 
were,  nevertheless,  tokens  that  the  owner,  though  poor, 
was  of  noble  birth,  for  here  and  there  a  bit  of  cumbrous 
family  plate  was  to  be  seen ;  the  Leicester  arms  were 
blazoned  upon  the  brown  morocco  of  more  than  one 
volume  lying  on  the  table,  and  relics  of  Penshurst  might 
have  been  noted  among  the  ordinary  furniture  of  a 
London  house.  Present,  too,  were  signs  that  Sydney  was 
one  of  the  wanderers  of  the  earth.  An  old  trunk  full  of 
letters  and  papers  stood  open  beside  the  writing-table  ;  a 
pillow-beer—friend  of  many  a  weary  journey — lay  hard 
by ;  while  the  literary  tastes  of  the  patriot  were  plainly 
evidenced  by  what  for  those  days  was  a  large  collection 
of  books. 

Betterton  had  a  moment  in  which  to  take  in  all  these 
details,  and  to  become  conscious  of  an  atmosphere  of 
hard  work  which  pervaded  the  room.  Sydney  was  so 
absorbed  in  his  writing  that  he  had  not  noticed  the  open- 
ing of  the  door,  and  his  servant  crossed  the  room  and 
mentioned  the  visitor's  name  a  second  time  before  he 
looked  up.  For  one  moment  the  actor  caught  the  two 
faces  full  in  the  bright  light  which  streamed  in  from  the 
window.  The  face  of  the  faithful  valet  bearing  traces  of 
care  and  harassing  anxiety,  the  face  of  the  patriot  a  little 
sterner  than  it  was  wont  to  be,  but  pervaded  by  that 
majestic  calm  which  seems  to  be  the  panoply  wherewith 
strong  souls  are  indued  in  time  of  trouble.  There  flashed 


IV  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  3t$ 

across  Betterton's  mind  the  description  of  a  noble  man  in 
words  which  he  had  often  spoken  upon  the  stage — 

"  E'en  as  just  a  man  as  e'er  my  conversation  coped 
Withal  ....  That  man  who  is  not  passion's  slave." 

It  was  not  often  that  such  an  one  was  to  be  met  with ; 

yet  here  was  a  man,  even  in  this  vile  age,  noble  of  soul 
and  pure  of  life. 

The  slight  air  of  hauteur  was  evidently  an  inherited  ex- 
pression ;  it  was  not  in  accord  either  with  Sydney's  life 
or  with  his  principles.  Moreover,  it  was  only  noticeable 
when  the  face  was  in  repose.  He  received  the  actor  with 
perfect  courtesy,  which  soon  deepened  into  anxious  in- 
terest and  that  strange  rapid  intimacy  born  of  trouble. 
Hugo  could  not  by  any  possibility  have  selected  a  better 
messenger  than  the  great  tragedian.  He  told  his  tale 
with  a  simple  directness,  with  a  vividness  of  description, 
with  an  absence  of  personal  comment,  but  with  a  living 
sympathy  which  was  irresistible.  Sydney  was  deeply 
moved,  nor  did  he  even  for  a  moment  take  a  harsh  view 
of  Hugo's  fall.  The  difficulty  and  the  struggle  he  had  long 
foreseen,  the  failure  he  had  half  feared,  but  he  had  a  pro- 
phetic consciousness  that  such  a  nature  as  Hugo's  would 
not  forever  lie  in  slavery. 

"You  will  send  him  the  word  of  counsel  he  craves?" 
said  the  actor. 

"Nay,  rather  I  will  see  him  myself,"  said  Sydney, 
quickly.  "Would  that  I  could  lay  hands  on  that  caitiff 
brother  of  his,  and  give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind.  Tis 
passing  strange  what  diverse  shoots  spring  from  the  same 
stem." 

And  he  smiled  rather  bitterly,  thinking  perhaps  of  the 
grave  differences  which  had  been  the  cause  of  so  much 
strife  and  contention  between  him  and  both  his  brothers. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said Betterton,  "but  will  not  a  visit  from 
you  be  a  source  of  mutual  danger  ?  To  bring  you  into 
any  risk  would  be  small  satisfaction  to  Mr.  Wharncliffe." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Sydney,  "  I  spoke  hastily,  forget- 
ting  that  we  live  in  an  age  which  maketh  truth  pass  for 
treason.  Ay,  I  must  not  visit  him,  'twould  make  his  lot 
harder.  Yet,  poor  lad,  I  would  fain  have  spoken  with 
him.  Hugo  is  one  of  those  who  are  over-pure  for  the  age 
they  live  in,  and,  from  Him  of  Nazareth  downwards,  life 
is  hard  to  such." 

«5 


225  IN  TffE  GOLDEN  DAYS, 

"  If  there  be  aught  that  I  can  do  in  the  way  of  bearing 
message  or  letter  I  am  entirely  at  your  disposal,"  said 
Betterton. 

"I  am  very  sensible  of  your  courtesy,"  said  Sydney. 
"  Perchance  that  were  the  best  way,  at  least  till  the  worst 
of  this  panic  hath  passed  by.  I  will  write  to  him  at  once, 
for  indeed — carpe  diem — who  can  tell  but  that  I  may  be 
even  as  he  ere  the  sun  goes  down." 

He  smiled  sadly,  but  with  the  calmness  of  one  who  has 
passed  a  lifetime  in  constant  risks  and  perils. 

"You  deem  yourself  indeed  in  danger,  sir?"  asked 
Betterton,  marvelling  at  the  serenity  with  which  such 
words  had  been  spoken. 

"I  have  never  known  what  it  is  to  be  out  of  danger, 
Mr.  Betterton,  for  these  many  years,"  replied  Sydney. 
"When  I  only  looked  over  a  balcony  to  see  what  passed 
at  the  election  of  the  sheriffs,  I  was  indicted  for  a  riot. 
And  I  am  well-informed  that  had  the  Meal  Tub  Sham  suc- 
ceeded, I  should  have  been  involved  in  it." 

"Yet  such  a  scheme  would  have  sorted  ill  with  your 
likings,  sir." 

"In  truth  you  say  well,"  said  Sydney,  with  a  bitter 
smile.  "As  I  told  His  Majesty  at  Whitehall,  nothing 
could  be  more  repugnant  to  my  feeling  than  a  measure 
which  must  eventually  unite  the  papists  and  the  crown. 
But  he  that  is  unpopular  must  not  look  for  justice  in  our 
land.  For  such  an  one  there  is  naught  but  exile." 

"Will  you  not  once  more  be  warned,  and  make  good 
your  escape  ?  "  said  the  tragedian. 

"You  echo  the  words  that  my  faithful  valet  dins  into 
my  ears  day  and  night,"  said  Sydney.  "But  look  you, 
Mr.  Betterton,  I  am  growing  old,  and  I  am  weary  of  these 
endless  precautions,  and  exile  is  hateful  to  me,  and  my 
country  over  dear.  If  I  flee  I  shall  but  leave  my  heart 
behind  me.  That  may  answer  at  five-and-twenty,  but  at 
sixty  it  is  not  so  well.  Now,  an  you  will  permit  me,  I 
will  pen  a  note  to  young  Mr.  Wharncliffe. " 

He  sat  down  at  his  writing-table,  leaving  the  actor  time 
for  a  further  study  of  the  room  and  its  owner,  this  daunt- 
less patriot,  whose  lot  it  had  been  to  win  the  undying 
hatred  of  the  court  party,  the  fear  of  all  half-hearted  and 
timid  men,  and  the  fervent  devoted  love  of  a  very  few. 
Presently  he  drew  forth  his  purse,  examining  its  contents, 
with  the  air  of  one  who  is  accustomed  to  find  it  lightei 


MT  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  227 

flian  might  be  wished.  He  had  in  truth  known  what  it 
was  to  be  "  poor  even  to  misery,"  and  though  at  present 
able  to  live  upon  the  small  sum  which  his  father  had  left 
him,  and  which  after  long  legal  disputes  had  at  length 
been  pronounced  his,  he  would  fain  have  sent  much  more 
substantial  help  to  Hugo  than  was  at  all  within  his  power. 

"You  will  then  kindly  be  the  bearer  of  this  letter  and 
purse,"  he  said,  turning  to  Betterton.  "  I  am  very  grate- 
ful to  you  for  your  help.  As  to  the  purse,  he  must  accept 
it  as  from  a  father.  I  see  plainly  enough  that  his  brother's 
aim  will  be  to  keep  him  in  such  sore  discomfort  that  he 
shall  at  length  succumb  and  own  what  he  knows.  Tell, 
him  he  must  use  the  money  to  defeat  that  unjust  end,  so 
will  his  independence  not  be  wounded  or  his  pride 
offended." 

Then  with  a  few  more  words  of  gratitude,  a  last  mes- 
sage for  Hugo,  a  finely  turned  compliment  which,  for  all 
his  ordinary  bluntness  of  speech,  proved  the  Republican 
to  be  a  polished  man  of  the  world,  Betterton  found  his 
mission  ended,  and  the  interview  over. 

After  he  had  left  the  house,  Sydney  paced  to  and  fro  in 
his  study  for  some  time,  wrapped  in  anxious  thought 
Hugo  was  very  much  upon  his  mind,  for  he  felt  a  great 
responsibility  for  him,  knowing  well  how  large  a  share  he 
had  had  in  forming  his  character  and  his  opinions.  Bet- 
terton's  description  of  the  prisoner  returned  to  him  again 
and  again,  and  ever  with  a  fresh  pang  of  sorrow  and  re- 
gret. There  was  something  indescribably  m  urnful  to 
him  in  the  thought  of  that  young  life  doomed  to  long  im- 
prisonment. After  a  while  Ducasse  entered  and  began 
to  lay  the  table  for  the  one-o'clock  dinner,  and  Sydney 
sat  down  and  began  to  eat,  more  to  please  the  faithful 
servant  than  because  he  had  any  appetite.  Troubles 
were  thickening  day  by  day,  and  he  was  heavy  of  heart 

"Ah,  sir,"  said  Ducasse,  "I  could  have  made  you  a 
better  omelette  than  this,  an  we  were  once  more  in 
France." 

"  All  things  are  best  there  in  thy  mind,  from  thy  master 
down  to  eggs  and  poultry,"  said  Sydney,  smiling.  "But 
I  am  growing  old,  Ducasse,  and  would  fain  end  my  days 
here,  even  though  things  right  themselves  but  slowly  in 
our  foggy  island. " 

"  Ah,  sir,"  said  the  valet,  "'tis  ever  'the  land,  the  land' 
you  speak  ot  But  of  what  use  is  the  land, 


228  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

countrymen  will  but  give  him  a  six-foot  strip  in  a  cemetery, 
or  perchance  so  much  as  will  serve  for  a  prison  cell.  Ahs 
sir,  think  of  yourself,  and  flee  while  yet  there  is  time." 

"But  look  you,  Joseph,  in  France  I  do  but  vegetate  to 
no  profit.  Whereas  here  I  may  perchance  serve  my  coun- 
try, if  free,  in  a  hundred  ways  ;  if  in  prison,  as  an  en- 
sample  to  future  ages  ;  if  on  the  scaffold,  as  one  of  the 
martyrs  from  whose  blood  shall  spring  one  day  our  true 
Republic." 

"Ah,  sir,  it  is  of  yourself  that  I  think,"  said  the  valet, 
sadly. 

"Thou  art  but  a  Frenchman,  after  all,  Joseph!  Yet» 
methinks,  after  these  long  years  we  have  lived  together, 
thou  shouldst  know  me  better,"  said  Sydney,  smiling. 
"  Hark,  there  is  a  knock  without.  Go,  see  who  calls. 
I  have  as  little  stomach  for  visitors  as  for  my  dinner  this 
morning. " 

Ducasse  left  the  room,  and  Sydney  let  his  knife  and  fork 
lie  idle  for  a  minute,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  with  the  air 
of  one  who  is  glad  for  once  to  be  free  from  even  friendly 
inspection.  An  intense  quietness  reigned  in  the  room, — 
one  of  those  timeless  pauses  which  occur  sometimes  in 
life ;  for  the  moment  his  brain  was  at  rest,  his  anxious 
thoughts  were  lulled ;  a  breath  of  soft,  warm  June  air 
floated  in  from  the  open  window,  and  gave  him  a  distinct 
feeling  of  pleasure ;  a  bee  went  buzzing  about  the  room, 
and  finally  settled  upon  his  plate.  Outside  there  were 
voices,  but  he  did  not  heed  them  ;  outside  were  steps, — 
but  what  then  ?  Ducasse,  perhaps,  had  not  been  able  to 
get  rid  of  some  importunate  visitor.  The  door  was  thrown 
open,  he  glanced  round.  What  did  it  all  mean  ?  The 
valet  stood  there  with  blanched  face,  and  announced 
nobody, — yet  the  footsteps  drew  nearer,  an  officer  en- 
tered, bowed  slightly,  advanced  and  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

All  at  once  that  strange  hush  was  broken,  the  stillness, 
the  calm,  the  timeless  pause  ended,  and  the  room  seemed 
in  a  tumult,  above  which  there  rang,  sharply  and  gratingly, 
the  words, 

"Algernon  Sydney,  I  arrest  thee  in  the  King's  name  on 
a  charge  of  high  treason. " 

With  a  swift  pang,  he  realized  that  the  minute  of  intense 
stillness  had  been  his  last  minute  of  freedom  in  this  world, 
and  involuntarily  his  eyes  followed  the  bee,  as,  alarmed 


IN  THE  GOLDEN'  DAYS.  229 

by  the  noise  and  the  sudden  intrusion  of  officers  and  men, 
it  flew  noisily  round  the  room  and  out  beyond  through  the 
open  window. 

A  fresh  knock  without,  and  yet  another  unwelcome 
visitor.  Sir  Philip  Lloyd  entered,  greeting  the  prisoner 
courteously  enough. 

' '  I  have  an  order,  Mr.  Sydney,  to  seize  all  papers  found 
within  your  house,"  he  said.  "And  I  must  therefore 
search  the  premises." 

Sydney  bowed  acquiescence. 

"Lay  covers  for  two,"  he  said,  turning  to  Ducasse. 
"These  gentlemen  will  dine  with  me — unless," — turning 
to  Sir  Philip  Lloyd — "you  think  it  not  meet  to  take  salt 
with  one  arrested  on  such  a  charge  ?  " 

There  was  a  sort  of  veiled  irony  in  his  tone,  but  the  offi- 
cers could  not  well  refuse  his  hospitality,  and  the  strange 
trio  sat  down  to  the  table,  and  Ducasse  waited  on  them, 
having  much  ado  to  keep  his  eyes  clear  enough  to  see  the 
plates  and  dishes.  Every  one,  save  the  Republican  him- 
self, seemed  embarrassed.  Throughout  the  meal  he  main- 
tained a  stately  composure,  talking  with  the  officers  as 
though  they  had  been  ordinary  guests,  and  apparently 
doing  his  best  to  set  them  at  their  ease.  Perhaps,  how- 
ever, their  abashed  manner,  was  not  altogether  ungrateful 
to  him,  and  he  was  quite  human  enough  to  enjoy  the  con- 
sciousness of  being  master  of  the  situation. 

Dinner  over,  Sir  Philip  Lloyd,  nothing  loth,  set  about 
the  more  congenial  task  of  searching  the  house.  What 
papers  there  were,  however,  were  all  in  the  study,  and 
after  a  vain  quest  in  the  upper  regions  he  returned,  and 
began  to  ransack  the  drawers  and  cupboards  of  an  oaken 
cabinet,  while  his  men  seized  upon  the  papers  lying  on 
the  writing-table,  and  stowed  them  away  with  the  others 
in  the  open  trunk  and  the  pillow-beer. 

This  part  of  the  proceedings  tried  Sydney's  patience  con« 
siderably.  His  dark  eyes  flashed  as  he  noted  the  seizure 
by  these  strangers  of  all  that  was  most  private  to  him, 
Ducasse  could  see  that  his  master  had  much  ado  to  keep 
back  a  torrent  of  angry  remonstrance.  He  held  his  peace, 
however,  sitting  somewhat  rigidly  in  his  high-backed 
chair  at  the  dinner-table,  and  only  following  every  move» 
ment  with  lynx  eyes. 

At  length  Sir  Philip  had  made  what  selection  of  paper* 
he  deemed  fit,  a  cord  was  placed  round  both  the  trunk  and 


330  it*  'THE  GOLDEN  DA  TS. 

the  pillow-beer,  and  Ducasse  was  despatched  for  wax  and 
candle.  The  men  dragged  forward  the  heavy  package. 

"  Bring  the  light  hither,"  said  Sir  Philip  ;  and  the  valet 
doing  as  he  was  bid,  held  the  wax  and  the  light  close  to 
his  master. 

"What  is  this  for?"  asked  Sydney,  with  a  shade  of 
hauteur  in  his  tone. 

"  I  desire  that  you  put  your  seal  upon  these  papers, 
Mr.  Sydney,"  said  Sir  Philip.  "They  shall  not  be  opened 
but  in  your  presence." 

Sydney  drew  the  signet-ring  from  his  finger,  but  then 
hesitated.  Had  not  something  of  this  sort  passed  at  Col- 
onel Mansell's  rooms,  when  he  was  accused  of  complicity 
in  the  Meal  Tub  Plot  ?  And  had  not  those  who  searched 
contrived  to  slip  a  treasonable  paper  in  among  the  private 
documents  ? 

"You  will  affix  your  seal  in  this  place,"  said  Sir  Philip, 
in  a  voice  of  authority,  and  indicating  the  knotted  cord. 

"Pardon  me,  sir,  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said 
Sydney,  with  asperity.  And,  while  every  one  stared  at 
him,  he  put  his  ring  on  again  with  great  calmness  and 
deliberation. 

Sir  Philip  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and,  looking  but  ill 
pleased,  put  his  own  seal  upon  the  cord. 

"As  you  please,  Mr.  Sydney,"  he  said,  coldly.  "We 
did  but  consult  your  own  convenience.  A  coach  is  in 
waiting,  and  we  must  make  no  further  delay,  since  you 
are  to  be  examined  before  the  Privy  Council" 

Sydney  bowed. 

"  My  hat  and  cloak,  Joseph. "  Then,  as  the  valet  re- 
turned, he  spoke  a  few  words  of  gratitude  and  affection 
to  him  in  his  native  tongue,  grasped  his  hand,  bade  him 
God-speed,  and  turned  abruptly  towards  his  captors, 
"Gentlemen,  I  am  ready.  Bear  me  whither  you  wilt* 


l»  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 


CHAPTER  XXIIL 

A  MIDNIGHT    ESCAPE. 

I  shall  not  want  false  witness  to  condemn  me, 
Nor  store  of  treasons  to  augment  my  guilt ; 
The  ancient  proverb  will  be  well  effected : 
A  staff  is  quickly  found  to  beat  a  dog. 

King  Henry  VI. 

"  JOTCE,  my  love,  your  father  would  speak  with  you," 
said  Mrs.  Wharncliffe,  softly  opening  the  door  of  the  bed- 
room  shared  by  Joyce  and  little  Evelyn,  and  closing  it  as 
softly  behind  her. 

The  household  had  retired  as  usual,  and  it  had  been 
deemed  prudent  to  tell  none  of  the  servants,  save  the  old 
nurse,  that  Colonel  Wharncliffe  intended  that  night  to  make 
his  escape.  A  secret  shared  among  many  is  always  in 
danger  of  being  betrayed,  and  faithful  devotion  to  a  master 
does  not  always  inspire  prudence,  or  entirely  crusl-  the 
love  of  gossip. 

It  was  past  ten  o'clock,  but  Joyce,  knowing  that  she 
should  be  summoned  ere  long,  had  made  no  preparations 
for  the  night.  She  stood  at  the  open  casement,  looking 
out  into  the  twilight  garden,  her  arms  resting  on  the  sill, 
and  her  face  propped  between  both  hands.  Without,  all 
was  wonderfully  still ;  not  a  breath  of  wind  stirred  the 
tall  dark  elms,  no  nightingale's  song  broke  the  silence,  no 
wakeful  bird  stirred  in  its  nest,  no  sound  of  human  life  fell 
upon  the  ear.  A  heavy  dew  had  fallen,  there  was  a  deli- 
cious balmy  freshness  in  the  air  which  made  breathing 
itself  a  delight,  and  from  far  distant  fields  was  wafted  the 
fragrance  of  the  newly-cut  hay.  The  calmness  of  nature 
no  longer  irritated  Joyce  as  it  had  done  on  the  previous 
morning,  when  she  had  run  out  to  sink  the  book  in  the 
moat.  Since  then  she  had  lived  through  so  much  that  all 
her  thoughts  and  perceptions  were  changed ;  she  had 
passed  from  childhood  to  womanhood,  had  learnt  what  it 
was  both  to  love  and  to  hate.  Since  then,  moreover,  she 
had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  peace  which  remains  unbroken, 
in  spite  of  earthly  tumult  and  strife,  and  the  peaceful 


232  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

summer  night  seemed  to  her  a  type  of  the  Infinite  and 
Eternal. 

She  had  been  crying,  but  she  dried  her  tears  hastily  on 
hearing  her  mother's  voice,  and  when  she  turned  round 
a  sudden  smile  of  delight  shone  in  her  eyes,  for  she  saw 
to  her  astonishment  that  the  door  had  again  been  softly 
opened  and  her  father  himself  stood  there. 

"I  want  a  few  words  with  you,  little  daughter, "he 
said,  quietly,  stooping  to  kiss  her  forehead  as  he  spoke. 
"We  will  come  together  to  the  south  parlor  ;  but  first  1 
will  bid  Evelyn  farewell.  No,  do  not  rouse  her,  'tis  bet- 
ter she  should  sleep,  poor  little  maid." 

Joyce  had  to  walk  to  the  window  once  more  that  she 
might  furtively  wipe  her  eyes,  while  her  father  and  mother 
bent  over  the  little  sleeping  child.  When  she  looked 
round  again,  she  saw  her  father  kneel  down  for  an  instant 
beside  Evelyn ;  he  kissed  her  rosy  cheek,  her  hair,  her 
little  uncovered  arm,  then  he  rose  quietly,  put  his  arm 
round  his  wife,  and  led  the  way  through  the  dark  and 
silent  house,  Joyce  stealing  after  them  with  a  full  heart, 
flowly  and  noiselessly  they  made  their  way  down  the 
broad  oak  staircase  with  its  many  turns,  Joyce  counting 
the  familiar  steps  in  each  flight  lest  she  should  stumble 
and  make  a  noise ;  then  on  through  the  ghostly-looking 
hall  with  its  white  flagstones  and  its  dusky  gallery,  and 
its  haunting  recollections  of  the  previous  day.  Joyce 
shuddered  and  crept  closer  to  her  mother,  wondering  if 
those  terrible  sounds  would  always  torment  her  as  she 
passed  by.  It  was  a  relief  to  be  in  the  light  and  warmth 
of  the  south  parlor  ;  it  was  a  relief  to  be  quite  alone  with 
her  father,  for  Mrs.  Wharncliffe  left  them,  having  many 
preparations  to  make. 

For  a  minute  Colonel  Wharncliffe  did  not  speak.  He 
found  that  the  words  he  intended  to  have  spoken  to  Joyce 
would  not  come  readily  to  his  lips.  How  could  he  tell 
this  child  that  she  was  much  too  young  to  know  her  own 
mind,  when  all  the  time  she  was  raising  to  his,  eyes  which 
were  full  of  a  strange  new  depth  and  tenderness  ?  How 
could  he  say  that  love  was  not  for  her  yet  awhile,  when 
love  had  already  added  womanly  dignity  to  the  child-like 
face  ?  Instead,  his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  far  past. 

"Thou  art  just  like  thy  mother,  little  maid,"  he  said, 
stroking  the  soft,  rounded  cheek  tenderly.  "And  so  thy 
kinsman  hath  told  thee  of  his  lore,  is  it  not  so  ?  " 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  033 

"Ay,  father." 
'And  what  did  my  daughter  say  when  he  told  her?" 

'  I  kissed  him,  father. " 

Colonel  Wharncliffe  smiled  in  spite  of  himselt 
'And  didst  own  thy  love  ?  " 

'Ay,  father,  I  did  say  I  loved  him;  it  was  the  truth,* 
6a  d  Joyce,  blushing  vividly. 

"Ah,  my  little  maid,"  said  the  father,  drawing  her  closer 
to  him,  "dost  realize  that  love  brings  pain  with  it?  An 
thou  givest  away  thy  heart  thus  early,  thou  canst  never 
again  play  light-hearted  and  free  like  thy  sisters. " 

"I  do  not  want  to  be  free,  father,  this  is  better,"  said 
Joyce,  shyly,  yet  with  a  certain  sweet  decision  in  her  tone. 

"God  help  you,  poor  child  ;  I  see  but  a  sad  time  be- 
fore you!"  said  the  colonel,  with  a  deep  sigh.  "Say 
that  I  make  my  escape  now  and  stay  abroad  till  the 
danger  is  past  and  the  country  at  rest  again,  that  will 
avail  naught  to  lessen  Randolph's  hatred.  Nothing  can 
free  me  from  his  enmity,  nothing  can  save  Hugo  from 
his  brother's  wrath  so  long  as  he  shields  me  by  silence." 

"But  Hugo  never  thought  it  would  be  otherwise, 
father,"  said  Joyce,  with  a  little  quiver  in  her  voice.  "  He 
has  never  expected  aught  besides  ;  nor  have  I." 

"  And  thus  my  little  maid  hath  half  plighted  herself  to 
a  life  of  sorrow  and  trouble." 

"Nay,  but  to  Hugo,"  she  replied,  with  a  thrill  of  eager- 
ness in  her  voice  which  did  not  escape  the  father's  notice. 
"Not  to  sorrow,  but  to  him,  and  afterwards  let  come 
what  will." 

Very  sadly  he  watched  the  sweet,  eager  face,  with  its 
light  of  love  and  devotion  ;  he,  with  his  fatherly  desire  to 
see  her  happy,  free  from  care,  and  in  perfect  safety  ;  he, 
with  his  manly  longing  to  shield  her  from  danger  and  suf- 
fering, could  not  understand  that  the  long  vista  of 
pain  and  uncertainty  did  not  in  the  least  daunt  her — 
seemed,  on  the  contrary,  rather  to  stimulate  her  love. 
For  Joyce  was  a  true  woman,  and  the  crown  of  a  woman's 
love  is  the  bearing  of  pain  for  and  with  the  one  she  loves. 

There  was  silence  for  a  while.  At  length  Colonel 
Wharncliffe  spoke. 

"  Child,"  he  said,  "I  cannot  see  before  me ;  all  is  blank 
mist  save  this  one  step  which  I  must  take  ere  morn,  to 
leave  home  and  country.  I  can  see  no  future  for  myself 
or  for  you,  and  do  I  try  to  think  and  scheme  for  you  and 


t34  M  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

the  rest  my  fears  distract  me.  My  life  is  in  peril,  and,  H 
I  were  dead,  I  know  not  what  might  become  of  you  chil- 
dren. I  believe  that  Hugo  would  strive  to  make  you  a 
good  and  worthy  husband.  But,  Joyce,  the  times  are 
evil ;  nay,  child,  thy  pure  heart  cannot  see  the  perils  that 
I  know  of.  I  am  saying  naught  against  thy  lover,  but 
the  times  are  evil,  and  he  hath  been  over  much  at  White- 
hall." 

"Yet  would  he  never  take  me  to  the  court  Long  ago 
he  said  that.  He  said  after  the  duel  it  were  no  fit  place 
for  me. " 

"  Hugo  may  not  be  able  to  help  it,"  said  the  colonel. 
"A  King's  commands  are  not  lightly  neglected.  The 
world  is  an  evil  place,  and  my  little  white  country-rose,  for 
all  her  whitness,  might  get  sullied  with  the  foul  atmosphere 
of  the  court,  Joyce," — he  took  her  hands  in  his  and  held 
them  fast — "Joyce,  my  child,  if  ever  temptation  should 
come  to  you,  remember  this,  the  love  of  your  father  and 
mother  may  shield  you  from  much,  and  the  love  of  your 
husband  may  shield  you  from  more,  but  there  is  no  in- 
vincible shield  save  the  love  of  God  Himself." 

Tears  rushed  to  her  eyes,  and  she  trembled  from  head 
to  foot 

"Nay,  sweet,"  he  said,  putting  his  arm  round  her,  "I 
meant  not  to  affright  thee.  Tremble  not.  That  is  invinc- 
ible." 

After  that  no  word  passed  between  them  for  some  time, 
but  in  the  silence  Joyce  learnt  many  things,  little  dream- 
ing that  the  father  whose  strong  arm  encircled  her  was 
learning  too,  and  perchance  a  harder  lesson. 

"  Thou  wilt  take  care  of  thy  mother  while  I  am  away," 
he  said,  after  a  time.  "She  will  need  fresh  help  and 
comfort  in  many  ways.  Let  that  be  thy  charge,  little 
Joyce.  Do  thou  be  her  sunshine  while  I  am  gone." 

"Evelyn  would  shine  better,"  said  Joyce,  doubtfully. 

"And  thou  wouldst  then  let  the  clouds  gather  in 
peace,"  said  the  colonel  smiling.  "Nay,  I  would  fain 
leave  thee  as  thy  mother's  special  helper ;  so  will  two 
birds  be  killed  with  one  stone,  as  the  proverb  hath  it,  and 
my  little  daughter  will  not  let  herself  pine  away  in  a 
green  and  yellow  melancholy." 

Joyce  smiled  faintly. 

"And  you  will  send  for  us  ere  long,"  she  said  "Why 
should  not  we  be  with  you  in  Holland?"  Then,  re- 


/y  THE  COLDER  DA  YS.  23$ 

membering  that  Holland  was  further  from  Newgate  than 
Mondisfield,  would  fain  have  unsaid  her  vrords. 

The  father  read  it  all  in  her  face,  and  felt  the  sharp  stab 
of  pain.  How  absolutely  in  that  brief  time  she  had  given 
her  heart  away !  It  hurt  him  a  little,  even  while  he  rec- 
ognized that  it  was  both  natural  and  inevitable. 

"I  cannot  tell  how  that  may  be,"  he  said.  "  I  cannot 
see  any  future;  we  must  be  content  to  leave  it  a  blank." 

Poor  Joyce  !  the  words  struck  to  her  heart  with  a  deathly 
Chill.  No  future !  and  such  a  heart-breaking  present  ? 
The  thought  of  Hugo  faded  a  little  in  her  mind,  and  she 
remembered  only  that  her  father  was  going  forth  alone  to 
brave  the  perils  of  the  way,  that  she  might,  perhaps,  never 
see  him  again,  and  that  but  now  she  had  grudged  the 
thought  of  sharing  his  exile, 

"Take  me  with  you,  father,"  she  sobbed,  clinging  to 
him  like  a  frightened  child.  **  Go  not  alone  thus— take 
me  with  you." 

"Bless  thee  for  the  thought,  sweet  one,  but  it  may  not 
be,"  he  said,  caressing  her.  Then,  as  his  wife  returned 
to  the  room,  "Dear  heart,  I  shall  leave  you  with  Joyce 
as  my  deputy,  Joyce  is  to  be  her  mother's  special  child  till 
my  return.  What !  is  all  ready  ?  Then  let  us  be  going. 
Delay  doth  but  make  things  harder." 

Outside  in  the  passage  a  lamp  stood  on  an  old 
wooden  chest,  and  beside  it  the  saddle-bags  and  the 
valise  which  the  colonel  was  to  take  with  him.  Betty, 
Damaris,  Frances,  and  Robina  were  in  waiting,  cloaked 
and  hooded,  and  Betty  came  and  tied  on  Joyce's  blue 
hood  for  her,  and  took  the  little  sister's  cold  hand  In  hers 
as  they  followed  their  father  and  mother  down  the  drive, 
across  the  moat,  and  into  the  stable-yard. 

Robina  ran  on  quickly  that  she  might  speak  to  and 
quiet  the  old  watch-dog  ;  then,  assured  that  Nettle  would 
not  betray  them,  followed  her  sisters  into  the  stable,  where, 
with  Frances  to  hold  the  lantern,  the  other  three  girls 
saddled  their  father's  horse.  Colonel  Wharncliffe,  stand- 
ing in  the  doorway  with  his  wife,  watched  the  scene  with 
a  sore  heart ;  the  dusky  stable  with  its  high  roof  lost  in 
shadow,  the  patient  steed,  the  lantern  held  up  high  by 
one  of  the  dark-robed  girls,  and  shedding  its  yellow 
light  on  the  others  as  they  deftly  arranged  saddle  and 
bridle.  He  fancied  that  the  brightest  gleam  of  all  fell 
upon  Joyce,  revealing  the  sweet  face  with  overbright 


236  IN  THE  GOLDEN'  DAYS. 

eyes  and  tremulous  lips ;  she  was  working  away  at 
straps  and  buckles  with  a  nervous  energy  which  strove  to 
banish  the  thought  of  the  parting — but  the  parting  had 
to  come. 

Ere  long  the  good  steed  was  ready,  and  Robina  led 
him  carefully  out  into  the  yard  beneath  the  tall  elm-trees. 

"With  Merlin's  help,"  said  the  colonel,  stroking  the 
glossy  mane  of  his  horse,  "I  ought  to  beat  Harwich  not 
long  after  sunrise,  and  at  Harwich  there  will,  I  think,  be 
small  difficulty  in  getting  a  ship  to  Amsterdam.  Fare- 
well, dear  heart  Keep  up  your  courage,  and  be  not 
troubled  if  you  do  not  hear  from  me.  Trust  me  to  write 
by  the  first  opportunity." 

After  that  no  one  spoke.  In  the  dead  silence  he  em- 
braced them,  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  out  into  the 
night.  Those  who  were  left  behind  stood  quite  still — no 
one  stirred,  no  one  cried ;  they  just  waited  there  listen- 
ing with  painful  intentness  to  the  sound  of  the  horse's 
hoofs,  gradually  growing  fainter  and  more  faint.  At 
length  they  all  knew  that  there  was  nothing  more  to  wait 
for,  the  last  sound  had  died  away  in  the  distance,  and  the 
summer  wind  stirring  in  the  elm-trees  seemed  like  a  deep, 
sudden  sigh  as  though  Mondisfield  knew  that  its  master 
had  gone  forth  into  exile.  Then  one  long,  quivering, 
half-restrained  sigh  escaped  the  mother,  and  she  was  glad 
to  feel  a  little,  soft  hand  steal  i  *o  hers.  Were  not  her 
children  left  to  her — doubly  left  ?  She  must  live  for 
them! 

"Come,  my  children  1"  she  said  quietly.  "Close  the 
stable  door,  Damaris,  and  let  us  go  back  to  bed.  Nurse 
shall  bring  you  all  a  sack-posset. " 

So  they  went  back  to  the  deserted  house,  and  Colonel 
Wharncliffe  rode  on  towards  Harwich,  well  knowing  that 
many  perils  beset  his  path. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  33! 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

AT  THE   NATIONAL  THANKSGIVING. 

With  whom  an  upright  zeal  to  right  prevails, 
More  than  the  nature  of  a  brother's  love. 

King  Henry  VI. 

THE  summer  had  passed,  and  the  house  in  Norfolk 
Street,  which  had  been  closed  for  long  months  owing1  to 
the  absence  ot  "he  family,  once  more  began  to  show  signs 
of  life.  Shutters  were  thrown  back,  windows  opened, 
and  in  due  time  the  old  family  coach  rolled  up  to  the  door, 
to  the  delight  of  >hree  dirty  little  boys  who  left  off  playing 
with  the  mud  ir\  the  gutter  to  watch  the  arrival  of  the 
grandees.  Rupert,  resplendent  in  sad-colored  cloth  faced 
with  green  velvet,  old  Lady  Merton,  Sir  William's  sister, 
and  lastly  Mary,  who  had  been  by  no  means  sorry  to  leave 
the  country  and  return  under  Lady  Merton's  guardianship 
to  London.  Sir  William  and  Lady  Denham  had  gone  to 
the  Bath  and  were  not  Jo  return  till  Sir  William's  gout  had 
been  cured. 

Letters  were  rare  in  those  days,  and  yet  Mary  had  been 
filled  with  an  uneasy  wonder  that  the  long  summer  months 
had  brought  no  news  of  Hugo.  The  whole  family  had 
left  London  soon  after  Randolph  and  Hugo  had  gone  to 
Longb ridge  Hall,  and  no  one  had  heard  from  either  of  the 
brothers  since.  True,  Lady  Merton's  lonely  old  manor 
house  in  Warwickshire  was  so  remote  that  one  never  did 
expect  any  news  there ;  but  the  vague  rumors  as  to  the 
Rye  House  Plot,  and  the  curious  silence  on  Hugo's  part 
Had  troubled  Mary  not  a  little.  More  than  once  she 
pondered  over  that  strange  confession  he  had  made  to  her 
in  the  preceding  autumn,  more  than  once  she  wondered 
how  the  case  of  conscience  he  had  put  to  her  could  have 
anything  to  do  with  himself  and  Randolph. 

Following  her  aunt  up  the  broad  stone  steps  and  into 
the  somewhat  dingy  passage  beyond,  she  saw  in  an  in- 
ttant  that  upon  the  marble  table  outside  the  parlor  door, 


338  t*T  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

iay  a  letter  directed  in  Hugo's  clear  but  rather  cramped 
handwriting, 

"  To  Rupert  Denhant,  esqttirc, 

"Alt  His  House  in  Norfolk  Sfreet; 

£< Did  Mr.  Wharncliffe  leave  this  to-day?"  she  asked, 
turning  to  old  Thomas  the  butler,  with  whom  she  was  a 
great  favorite. 

"Mr.  Wharncliffe,  mistress  !  "  said  the  old  man,  raising 
his  eyebrows.  "'Twas  not  Mr.  Wharncliffe  who  brought 
it.  'Twas  one  day  last  July,  and  one  of  the  sour-faced 
Puritan  ministers  brought  it  to  the  door.  I  took  him  to 
be  a  Muggletonian,  for  he  had  the  ways  of  them." 

"How?"  asked  Mary,  forgetting  her  anxiety  for  a  mo- 
ment 

"Why,  mistress,  I  did  but  keep  him  a  few  minutes  on 
the  step,  and  he  had  but  knocked  three  times,  and,  when 
he  taxed  me  with  not  minding  my  business  better,  I  made 
bold  to  tell  him  he'd  do  well  to  mind  his  ;  whereupon  he 
damned  me  to  all  eternity." 

Mary  laughed. 

"  Perchance  it  was  Muggleton  himself.  What  said  you 
to  him,  Thomas?" 

"Why,  mistress,  I  said  that  would  be  as  the  Lord 
pleased,  and  reminded'him,  as  the  proverb  hath  it — 'Cusses 
come  home  to  roost/  I  thought  his  letter  might  bide  its 
time,  knowing  that  Mr.  Rupert  would  not  care  to  pay  for 
damnations  on  delivery,  for  I  made  sure  it  was  from  the 
minister  himself. " 

Mary  longed  to  hear  the  contents  of  the  letter,  but  was 
obliged  to  show  Lady  Merton  to  the  guest-chamber,  and 
then  to  take  off  her  travelling  dress  and  put  on  her  white 
evening  gown,  that  she  might  not  show  any  indiscreet 
desire  for  news  of  Hugo,  awakening  thereby  her  aunt's 
suspicion,  and  Rupert's  love  of  teasing. 

She  thought  she  would  tell  Rupert  of  the  Muggletonian's 
interview  with  the  butler,  and  then,  quite  composedly  and 
casually,  ask  how  Hugo  had  come  to  employ  so  strange 
a  messenger.  But  when  she  entered  the  parlor,  and  saw 
her  cousin  standing  in  the  window  still  perusing  the  letter, 
something  in  his  face  changed  all  her  plans.  For  Rupert, 
the  merry,  careless,  light-hearted  cousin,  who  was  never 
grave  for  two  minutes  together,  was  reading  the  letter 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  339 

with  an  expression  of  such  deep  concern  on  his  face  at 

she  had  never  before  seen. 

4 '  What  is  it,  Rupert  ?  "  she  asked,  breathlessly.  ' '  What 
is  the  matter  ?  " 

He  looked  up,  and  she  saw  that  there  were  tears  in  hia 
eyes. 

"Tis  from  Hugo,"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "He  has  got 
into  trouble  over  this  cursed  plot — he  is  in  Newgate." 

"In  Newgate  I  "  she  repeated,  faintly.  "Hugo  in 
Newgate  I " 

"Ay,  of  all  folk  under  the  sun  !  "  cried  Rupert,  passion- 
ately. "Or  rather  he  was  there  months  ago,  may  be 
yet  alive  perchance.  Oh,  why  did  that  old  fool  forget  to 
*end  me  the  letter  ?  " 

"  He  knew  not  it  was  from  Hugo,  'twas  brought  hither 
by  some  Muggletonian  who  offended  him.  I  suppose 
Thomas  kept  it  back  out  of  malice  to  the  bearer." 

Rupert  damned  poor  Thomas  even  more  vehemently 
and  explicitly  than  the  Muggletonian  had  done,  while 
Mary  caught  eagerly  at  the  first  sheet  of  the  letter,  and 
read  Hugo's  account  of  what  had  passed  at  Mondisfield  ; 
then,  half-blinded  with  tears,  was  obliged  to  let  Rupert 
make  out  the  rest,  which  he  did  not  without  difficulty,  for 
Hugo  had  written  in  haste. 

"Tidings  have  reached  me  this  day,"  he  read,  "that 
Lord  Russell  is  to  be  executed  for  the  plot,  Lord  Howard 
of  Escrick — said  to  be  one  of  the  cabal  of  six — having 
saved  his  own  neck  by  swearing  against  his  friend.  And, 
Rupert,  this  is  wb»t  they  would  fato  have  me  do.  There 
are  but  two  ways  out  of  this  hell,  and  God  preserve  me 
from  taking  either  of  them  !  I  must  betray  Colonel 
Wharncliffe,  or  I  must  promise  to  bear  witness  against 
Colonel  Sydney. 

"  Yesternight  came  to  me  one  whom  I  take  to  be  an 
attorney,  and  urged  me  much  to  come  forward  at  Colonel 
Sydney's  trial  to  prove  his  disaffection  to  the  government, 
first  seeking  to  entangle  me  by  skilfully  framed  questions, 
and  then  dealing  out  both  threats  and  promises  of  reward. 
Seeing  that  the  rewards  shall  never  be  earned  by  me,  I 
take  it  the  threats  will  be  put  into  excution,  and  that  be- 
like, I  shall  be  once  more  thrust  into  yet  straiter  confine- 
ment. Therefore  come  to  me  as  soon  as  may  be,  for  at 
present  I  can  see  you,  being  in  that  part  of  Newgate 
they  call  the  castle.  I  have  written  boldly  come,  and 


»40  Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

yet  perchance  you  will  not  deem  it  fitting  to  visit  one  whe 
is  implicated  in  such  an  affair.  However,  though  Sir 
William  deems  himself  a  Tory,  I  know  right  well  that  he 
lets  not  affairs  of  state  interfere  with  his  friendships,  else 
had  he  not  been  friends  with  Colonel  Sydney,  to  whom 
as  you  know  he  introduced  me  at  the  first,  even  while 
warning  me  of  his  views.  They  tell  me  though  that  the 
whole  country  is  stirred  by  this  so-called  plot,  and  I  know 
not  how  far  the  atmosphere  of  Norfolk  Street  may  be 
changed,  only  I  have  great  hope  that  friendship  will  be 
over  strong  for  love  of  party,  and  that  you  will  come. 
An  you  love  me,  bring  me  what  rtews  there  is  of  Colonel 
Sydney.  Mr.  Betterton  saw  him  on  the  morning  of  his 
arrest,  and  brought  me  word  of  it.  Since  that  I  havo  heard 
naught.  Nor  has  Jeremiah  made  any  answer  to  a  letter 
which  Mr.  Betterton's  man  was  to  bear  to  him,  from  which 
it  seems  to  me  most  like  -that  Randolph  intercepted  the 
said  letter.  From  him  I  have  no  sign  whatever,  nor  am 
like  to  have.  Come  to  me  soon,  for  I  am  heavy-hearted, 
and  methinks  you  would  make  me  smile  even  in  jail. 
My  duty  to  Sir  William  and  Lady  Denham.  Tell  Mary 
her  counsel  served  me  well  in  the  sharpest  strait  of  all 
She  will  understand.  I  am  in  a  cell  here  with  two  Non- 
conformists. Griffith,  the  one  I  like  the  least,  is  at  this 
moment  discoursing  with  the  notorious  Lodowick  Muggle- 
ton,  who,  however,  I  must  not  abuse  since  spite  of  all  my 
errors  he  hath  not  as  yet  damned  me,  and  will  even  out 
of  charity  bear  this  letter  for  me,  and  deliver  it  into  your 
keeping.  I  have  waited  long  in  the  hope  of  some  such 
opportunity.  The  controversy  seems  drawing  to  an  end, 
therefore  must  this  letter  do  so  also.  For  God's  sake  come 
to  me,  and  if  possible  soon. 

"H.  W 

"Written  at  Newgate, 

-  July  16^1683.- 

"You  will  go  to  him  at  once?"  asked  Mary,  feeling  for 
the  first  time  that  her  womanhood  put  her  at  a  terrible 
disadvantage. 

"  Ay,"  he  replied,  "  at  once." 

"Then  take  this  with  you  ; "  she  put  her  purse  into  his 
hand  "  You  will  not  get  in  without  fees  to  the  turnkeys, 
and  perchance  he  may  be  in  need  of  money  himself." 

Rupert  did  not  refuse  the  purse,  for  to  tell  the  truth  his 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  341 

Own  was  as  usual  inconveniently  light.  Mary's  money 
found  its  way  to  his  pocket  among  love-letters,  betting 
memoranda,  and  the  tortoise-shell  comb  with  which  he 
ka^J  his  periwig  in  order  in  society. 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  her  to  see  him  start  off  at  once, 
and,  having  charged  him  with  whatever  messages  she 
ventured  to  send,  she  stationed  herself  at  the  window  to 
watch  him  out  of  sight,  returning  again  and  again  to 
her  post  as  soon  as  she  deemed  it  possible  for  him  to 
return. 

The  evening  seemed  interminable.  The  September 
twilight  deepened  into  night,  and  Thomas  brought  in  the 
lamp,  and  insisted  on  drawing  the  curtains  ;  she  could  no 
longer  keep  her  watch.  Lady  Merton,  tired  with  her 
journey,  sent  down  a  message  that  she  had  gone  to  bed, 
and  Mary  sat  idly  in  the  great  chair  by  the  hearth,  ap- 
parently watching  old  Thomas  as  he  laid  the  table  for 
supper,  but  in  reality  thinking  of  Rupert's  visit  to  Newgate, 
and  wearying  for  his  return.  Thomas,  who  was  of  a 
talkative  turn  thought  he  saw  an  opening  for  a  little  con- 
versation. 

"  Sad  doings  in  London,  mistress,  since  you  went  away 
to  Warwickshire.  Sad  doings  we've  had. " 

Mary  looked  up,  returning  from  her  reverie.  It  chafed 
her  to  feel  how  much  more  the  old  serving-man  probably 
knew  about  the  plot  than  she  did,  but  she  longed  so  much 
to  know  all  that  had  happened  that  she  swallowed  her 
pride,  and  asked  him  a  question. 

"We  heard  but  little  in  the  country, — only  vague 
rumors  about  the  plot,  and  then  that  Lord  Russell  had 
been  executed.  Have  you  heard  aught  of  C®lonel  Sydney, 
Thomas  ?  " 

"Ay,  indeed,  mistress.  His  man,  Joseph,  met  me 
some  four  weeks  or  more  agone,  and  I  made  bold  to  ask 
him  after  the  colonel.  You  must  know  that  on  the 
second  of  August  was  a  great  fire  in  the  Inner  Temple, 
over  against  the  great  gate  at  Whitefriars.  Three  stair- 
cases was  burnt,  and  Sir  Thomas  Robinson,  of  the  Com- 
mon Pleas,  he  leaped  out  of  window,  and  was  picked 
top  dead  as  any  stone.  Well,  mistress,  I  went  next  day 
to  see  the  spot,  and  there  among  the  crowd  I  espied 
Colonel  Sydney's  French  valet." 

"  And  what  said  he  of  his  master  ?  " 

"Why,  he  said  he  was  very  straitly  confined  In  the 
16 


242  /-V  THE  GOLDEN DAYS.  ( 

Tower,  and  that  they  dealt  most  severely  by  him,  so  that 
his  health  had  given  way.  They  would  let  him  see  no 
friends,  they  had  seized  all  his  goods  and  chattels,  nor 
would  they  permit  him  to  have  so  much  as  a  change  of 
linen.  However,  Ducasse  did  tell  me  that  his  master 
meant  to  petition  the  King  for  at  least  so  much  as  that," 

Mary  was  silent  for  a  minute.  Her  thoughts  had  flown 
back  to  an  evening  less  than  a  year  before,  when  in  that 
very  room  Sydney  had  supped  with  them,  and  had  dis- 
coursed of  the  better  education  of  women,  and  how  she 
had  laughingly  offered  him  some  of  the  red-deer  pie  of  her 
own  making. 

Once  more  the  whole  scene  rose  before  her,  the  empty 
table  was  again  surrounded  by  the  cheerful  party,  the 
Republican  colonel  leant  back  in  one  of  the  chairs  pro- 
pounding his  theories  of  life  ;  Hugo  sat  opposite  to  him, 
listening  with  reverential  attention  ;  Rupert  made  comical 
signs  of  disagreement ;  Sir  William  and  Lady  Denham 
listened  with  mild  amusement  and  well-bred  patience  to 
schemes  which  did  not  meet  with  their  approval.  Ah  1 
how  safe  and  happy  they  had  all  been  then  !  And  now 
one  of  the  guests  lay  in  the  Tower  and  the  other  in  New- 
gate, both  of  them  in  the  gravest  danger,  both  of  them 
enduring  untold  hardships.  She  could  almost  have  smiled 
had  she  not  been  so  wrathfully  indignant,  at  the  thought 
of  the  proud  Republican  obliged  to  petition  the  King— and 
such  a  King — for  permission  to  have  a  clean  shirt, 

Thomas,  who  had  left  the  room  during  her  silence,  now 
returned,  bearing  a  small  box  in  his  hand, 

"Ah,  mistress,"  he  said,  looking  cautiously  round  to 
see  that  no  one  else  was  near,  "  you  may  have  heard  little 
in  the  country,  but  we,  here  in  London,  have  perchance 
heard  too  much.  I  respects  my  master,  and  I  respects  Sir 
William's  views  and  opinions,  but  though  folk  may  say  an 
old  serving-man  should  think  with  his  master,  I  don't  hold 
with  such  sayings,  Mark  me,  mistress,  the  nation  won't 
stand  such  doings  as  there  have  been  much  longer.  Lord 
Russell  he  said  that  those  who  attacked  the  liberties  of 
England  would  have  to  wade  through  his  blood.  Well, 
God  rest  his  soul !  he  is  dead  and  gone,  but  his  blood  was 
not  shed  in  vain." 

He  opened  the  box  and  took  out  a  handkerchief,  one 
corner  of  which  bore  a  dark  red  stain,  Mary  looked  at  if 
and 


Of  THC.  <$QU)E If  DAYS.  §43 

"Ay,  mistress,  "continued  the  old  serving-man,  "lever 
deemed  myself  a  loyal  subject,  but  now  my  eyes  are 
opened,  and  I  say  that  he  who  made  such  an  one  die, 
when  all  the  world  knew  he  was  innocent,  is  a  tyrant,  and 
false  to  his  country.  I  stood  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  mis- 
tress, the  day  of  Lord  Russell's  execution,  and  I  saw  him 
drive  up  with  Dr.  Burnet,  brave  and  composed  as  could 
be,  and,  as  I  think,  singing  to  himself  in  an  undertone. 
I  saw  him  butchered,  mistress,  and  I  will  never  forget  it 
I  dipped  this  handkerchief  in  his  blood,  as  a  token  to  hand 
down  to  my  children's  children ;  and,  right  or  wrong, 
every  one  of  us  is  turned  against  His  Majesty  from  that 
day/' 

"I  feel  with  you,"  said  Mary,  in  a  low  voice.  "But, 
Thomas,  be  cautious  in  what  you  say,  for  after  all  this  is 
my  uncle's  house,  and  we  are  bound  to  respect  his  feel- 
ings." 

Truth  to  tell,  Mary  had  long  ago  ceased  to  believe  !n 
the  "divine  right  of  kings,"  but  she  had  never  confessed 
It  to  any  one,  well  knowing  that  girls  of  twenty  were  not 
supposed  to  think  at  all  upon  such  matters. 

She  asked  for  further  details  of  Lord  Russell's  trial  and 
death,  of  which  Thomas  gave  her  so  harrowing  a  descrip- 
tion that  she  could  not  restrain  her  tears.  Scarcely  had 
the  old  butler  withdrawn  from  the  room  when  steps  sound- 
ed in  the  street  without,  and  Rupert  opened  the  front  door. 
Mary  hurried  forward  to  meet  him,  an  eager  question  on 
her  lips, 

"  'Tis  all  of  no  use,"  said  her  cousin,  wrathfully ;  "  they 
will  not  let  me  see  him. " 

**  You  have  been  to  Newgate  ?  "  said  Mary. 

"Ay,  and  saw  the  governor.  He  admitted  that  Hugo 
was  there,  that  he  was  ill,  that  he  was  in  the  darkest  hole 
in  Newgate,  and  that  he  had  lain  there  since  July,  being 
far  more  obstinate  than  they  had  reckoned  for.  I  tried  to 
bribe  him  to  let  me  see  him,  but  'twas  of  no  avail. 

"  '  Not  if  you  offered  me  all  the  gold  in  the  Indies,  he 
said.  '  The  court  has  an  eye  to  this  prisoner ;  he  is  no 
common  case,  to  be  dealt  with  as  I  list' 

"  'The  court  will  defeat  its  own  ends  by  letting  him 
pine  to  death  in  a  dungeon,'  said  I. 

"  'Men  don't  pine  to  death  so  easily  as  you  think  for," 
said  the  governor  laughing.  "And  you  may  think  your- 
self lucky  for  being  spared  a  visit  to  a  pestilent  den,  where 


244  M  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

likely  enough  the  prisoner  would  refuse  to  speak  to  you, 
for  he  hath  taken  to  silence  of  late.  The  more  men  would 
have  him  to  talk,  the  more  he  persists  in  holding  his 
tongue. ' 

"I  asked  what  his  illness  was,  whereupon  the  governor 
rang  a  bell  and  in  came  a  jailer,  worse  looking  than  him- 
self, who,  in  presence  of  his  master,  gave  naught  but  surly 
answers  and  rough  jests." 

"Could  you  not  have  seen  him  alone  ?  "  said  Mary. 

"Ay.  Afterwards,  having  taken  leave  of  the  governor, 
I  managed,  by  the  aid  of  one  of  your  golden  guineas,  to 
secure  this  fellow  Scroop.  He  says  the  damp  of  the  dun- 
geon and  the  bad  food  have  made  him  ill ;  he  couldn't  say 
how,  not  being  a  leech  himself.  I  gave  him  a  message 
for  Hugo,  but  he  would  not  promise  to  bear  it  him. 
Rough  and  coarse  as  he  was,  though,  he  is  better  than 
the  governor,  though  he  looks  worse,  and  he  might  be 
bribed." 

The  cousins  talked  together  far  into  the  night,  planning 
how  to  reach  Hugo. 

The  next  morning  all  London  was  ringing  with  the 
sound  of  church-bells,  for  it  was  the  gth  of  September,  the 
day  appointed  for  the  National  Thanksgiving  for  the 
King's  escape  from  the  Rye-House  plot.  Some  commo- 
tion was  caused  in  one  of  the  churches,  for  a  note  was 
handed  in  to  the  unsuspecting  reader  and  delivered  by 
him  before  he  had  fairly  gathered  the  drift  of  the  verse.* 
The  astonished  congregation,  who  had  come  to  return 
thanks  for  His  Majesty's  deliverance,  listened  in  amaze- 
ment to  the  following  lines : — 

"  You  hypocrites,  forbear  your  pranks, 
To  murder  men  and  then  give  thanks : 
Forbear  your  tricks,  pursue  no  further, 
For  God  accepts  no  thanks  for  murder." 

In  the  mean  time  old  Thomas  quietly  made  his  way 
home  again,  and  Mary  Denham  was  not  sorry  to  avail 
herself  of  the  large  green  fan  which  ladies  were  in  the 
habit  of  taking  with  them  to  church  to  screen  their  devo- 
tions. 

One  other  person  in  the  church  also  changed  color  from 

*  This  actually  happened.    See  LuttrelTs/wnM/ 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  245 

very  different  reasons.  Randolph's  face  grew  a  shade 
paler,  his  bitter  mouth  twitched  nervously  once  or  twice. 
Murder  was  an  ugly  word,  and  there  was  such  a  thing  as 
aiding  and  abetting  murder.  Then  again  there  was  Hugo. 
They  had  brought  him  word  that  he  was  ill,  and  he  had 
rejoiced,  thinking  that  there  was  the  greater  chance  of 
gaining  his  point  and  dragging  from  his  lips  the  desired 
information.  But  if  Hugo  were  to  die  ? 

He  shuddered  at  that  thought.  And  the  thought 
haunted  him  persistently  all  through  the  service.  He  had 
vowed  that  he  would  not  see  his  brother  before  his  trial, 
but  while  the  old  clergyman  delivered  his  lengthy  discourse 
Randolph  was  struggling  with  an  almost  unconquerable 
longing  that  had  suddenly  seized  him.  A  strong  desire  to 
see  Hugo  once  more  took  possession  of  him,  How  waa 
he  to  justify  such  a  change  of  purpose  to  himself?  How 
was  he  to  permit  such  a  weakness  ?  In  truth  the  better 
part  of  his  nature  was  striving  to  make  itself  felt,  and  to 
escape  from  the  thraldom  of  the  lower.  To  do  Randolph 
justice,  he  had  been  sufficiently  miserable  during  these 
summer  months,  and  this  day  his  misery  reached  its 
climax.  Something,  he  knew  not  what,  had  touched  into 
life  the  faint  love  which  yet  lingered  in  his  heart  for  Hugo. 
If  he  could  but  justify  this  desire  to  see  him  with  his  plans 
and  schemes  !  And,  after  all,  it  would  defeat  these  said 
schemes  were  Hugo  to  die  in  jail,  and  was  he  prudent  to 
trust  entirely  to  the  word  of  an  ignorant  jailer?  Hugo 
was  too  valuable  to  be  left  in  such  a  way.  It  would  be 
in  every  way  prudent  to  visit  him.  Having  thus  recon- 
ciled himself  and  made  his  excuses  to  his  lower  nature,  he 
lost  no  time  in  making  his  way  to  Newgate,  where  no 
difficulty  was  made  about  admitting  him.  He  asked  a 
question  or  two  of  Scroop  as  the  jailer  led  him  along  the 
dreary  passages. 

' '  Was  the  prisoner  better  ?  What  had  his  illness  been  ?  " 
and  so  forth. 

"  You'll  judge  for  yourself,  sir,  "said  Scroop,  grimly.  "I 
never  set  up  for  being  a  leech. " 

"  But  is  he  yet  ill  ?  "  asked  the  elder  brother,  with  more 
anxiety  in  his  voice  than  he  cared  to  betray. 

"Oh,  ay,  he's  ill  yet  awhile,  if  sobeit  he's  alive,"  said 
Scroop,  carelessly.  "  Have  a  care  how  you  walk,  sir, 
these  steps  is  slippery  with  the  damp." 

"What  I  is  it  down  here  I  "  exclaimed  Randolph,  shud- 


346  AV  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

dering.  "Tfe  enough  to  kill  him,  in  good  sooth  Why 
did  you  put  him  in  such  a  vile  hole  ? " 

''I  did  but  obey  the  governor's  orders,  sir,  and  belike 
you  know  from  whom  he  received  them."  Scroop  looked 
sharply  back  at  his  companion  as  he  gave  utterance  to 
these  words.  He  was  pleased  to  see  Randolph  wince. 
"Belike  you'll  not  care  to  remain  long,  sir;  I  will  but  lock 
you  in  with  the  prisoner  for  a  half  hour.  This  way,  sir, 
and  mind  your  head." 

So  saying,  he  fitted  one  of  his  keys  into  a  low  door, 
unlocked  it,  drew  back  the  bolts,  and  bade  the  visitof 
walk  in. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 
RANDOLPH'S  REMORSE. 

Yea,  bless'd  is  he  in  life  and  death 
That  fears  not  death,  nor  loves  this  lif« ; 
That  sets  his  will,  his  wit  beneath, 
And  hath  continual  peace  in  strife. 
That  doth  in  spite  of  all  debate 
Possess  his  soul  in  patience ; 
And  pray,  in  love,  for  all  that  hate ; 
And  hate  but  what  doth  give  offence. 

JOHN  DAVIES  (1612). 

RANDOLPH  made  a  step  or  two  forward,  cautiously  grop- 
ing his  way,  for  at  first  he  could  scarcely  discern  anything 
in  the  dim  light.  He  would  fain  have  kept  the  jailer 
with  him,  for  it  gave  him  an  unpleasant  feeling  to  be 
locked  into  this  dismal  dungeon,  where  all  was  silent  as 
the  grave.  Supposing  Hugo  were  actually  dead  ?  What 
if  his  worst  fears  were  realized. 

It  was  strange  that  he  made  "o  sign,  for  his  eyes  must 
have  grown  accustomed  to  the  twilight.  The  floor  was 
rough  and  uneven,  in  many  places  covered  with  water 
nearly  an  inch  deep.  Randolph  splashed  straight  into  it, 
and  swore  half-a-dozen  oaths  as  the  chill  and  muddy 
Stream  found  its  way  into  his  shoes.  But  soon  things 
grew  clear  to  him,  and  once  more  he  could  see  distinctly 
all  that  there  was  to  see  in  the  bare  prison  cell.  Hugo, 
trapped  in  a  dark  green  cloak,  lay  on  the  stony  bed  in 


7JV  THE  GOLDEff  PA  YS.  247 

the  corner ;  his  white  face  and  hands,  gleaming  out  of  the 
dimness,  looked  so  deathly  that  Randolph  with  an  excla- 
mation of  dismay  hurried  across  the  muddy  floor,  and 
bent  down  close  to  him.  At  that  moment  his  eyes  opened, 
gazed  in  astonishment  for  an  instant  at  the  face  bent  over 
him,  then  lit  up  with  a  gleam  of  momentary  rapture, 

"Is  it  you?"  he  cried.  "Ah,  I  have  had  such  hateful 
dreams." 

"  I  came  here  to  see  how  you  Cared, "  said  Randolph, 
more  gently  than  he  was  in  the  habit  of  speaking. 

"Here?"  repeated  Hugo,  his  face  clouding  over. 
"Where  is  it?  Where  are  we?"  He  half  raised  him- 
self with  a  bewildered,  troubled  look  and  glanced  around 
It  was  after  all  the  dream  that  had  been  fair  and  the  reality 
that  was  hateful.  There  was  the  grim,  iron-studded  door, 
and  the  little  grating,  and  the  bare  walls,  and  the  wet 
floor  gleaming  in  the  sickly  light  He  sank  back  again, 
and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  There  was  silence 
in  the  cell.  Randolph  was  relieved  when  he  looked  up 
once  more. 

"  I  must  have  slept  right  sound,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
which  betrayed  repressed  suffering.  "  I  did  not  hear  you 
come  in.** 

"You  have  little  else  to  do  in  Newgate,  I  should 
think." 

"  No ;  and  here  it  is  not  often  possible  to  sleep  at 
night  because  of  the  rats  ;  they  are  quieter  by  day." 

He  got  up  as  he  spoke,  and  crossed  the  cell  languidly, 
returning  with  a  rough  wooden  seat  which  he  offered  to 
his  brother. 

Then  he  sat  down  on  the  bed  with  his  back  against  the 
wall,  and  his  head  resting  on  his  hand. 

"  Your  head  is  aching?  "  asked  Randolph. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  quietly,  "it  always  aches  now.** 

•'They  should  have  told  me  how  ill  you  were." 

"Scroop  said  he  did  tell  you.  Scroop  is  very  good  to 
me." 

"What  does  he  do  for  you ? " 

Randolph  glanced  round  as  though  to  discover  traces 
of  the  jailer's  attention. 

"  He  brings  the  bread  and  water  himself  instead  of 
sending  one  of  the  prisoners  ;  and  he  is  never  uncivil  now. 
And  on  the  bad  days  he  will  bring  me  a  double  share  of 
water.** 


94S  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"  There  is  no  other  prisoner  with  you,  then  ?  * 

"No,  save  for  the  first  day  and  night,  when  poor  Baillie 
was  here.  Baillie  of  Jerviswood,  a  Scotchman,  near  of 
kin  to  Dr.  Burnet. " 

"I  have  heard  of  him,"  said  Randolph.  "  He  too,  was 
implicated  in  the  plot  What  has  come  to  him  ?  Is  he 
executed  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Hugo.  "  Worse  than  that.  They  bore  him 
back  to  Scotland  because  here  they  may  not  legally  tor- 
ture him  for  evidence.  There  he  may  have  both  rack 
and  boot" 

"  And  since  he  went  you  have  been  alone  ?  " 

"Yes,  save  when  Scroop  comes  in,  or  Mr.  Ambrose 
Philips." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"One  who  hath  an  order  from  one  of  the  secretaries  to 
come  here  as  oft  as  he  will  and  try  to  drag  evidence  from 
me." 

"Ah,  lad,"  said  Randolph,  with  a  sigh,  "when  are  you 
going  to  yield  to  him  ?  What  heart  have  I  for  joining  in 
a  National  Thanksgiving  while  you  languish  here  !  " 

Hugo  turned  his  languid  eyes  upon  him  for  a  minute, 
but  he  seemed  too  weak  and  depressed  to  care  very  much 
for  anything. 

"  Is  there  a  thanksgiving?"  he  asked.  "I  heard  St 
Sepulchre's  bells  ring.  They  tolled  for  Lord  Russell  the 
day  I  came  in  here,  and  now  they  ring  for  the  King's 
triumph.  What  day  is  it?  I  have  lost  count  of  time." 

"  Tis  the  ninth  of  September." 

"Then  I  have  but  been  in  this  cell  nigh  upon  two 
months.  Yet  it  seems  like  two  years."  Then,  half 
dreamily,  "How  merry  the  bells  sound.  I  thought  it 
must  be  Gunpowder-plot  Day.  Only  September  !  Only 
September  1  My  God  !  keep  me  from  thinking  of  the 
whole  !  " 

"The  whole  of  what?"  asked  Randolph,  startled  by 
the  sudden  tone  of  agony. 

Hugo  seemed  to  return  to  the  world  again. 

" Of  life, "  he  said.  "It  is  thinking  of  the  whole  that 
drives  men  wild. " 

Randolph  knew  not  what  to  say.  The  interview  had 
not  been  at  all  what  he  had  expected.  Hugo  did  not 
seem  overpowered  with  delight  at  seeing  him,  nor  much 
Struck  by  his  condescension  in  coming ;  he  was  so  ill  and 


Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  249 

weak,  too,  that  the  elder  brother's  manhood  kept  him  from 
saying  what  was  harsh  and  bitter,  and  tender  words  did 
not  come  naturally  to  his  lips.  So  once  more  he  fell  back 
into  an  uncomfortable  silence. 

All  at  once  v«ices  were  heard  outside,  and  the  key 
grated  in  the  lock.  An  extraordinary  change  came  over 
Hugo.  His  pale  face  flushed  as  though  he  had  made  some 
sudden  effort ;  he  sprang  up,  crossed  the  cell  hurriedly, 
and  took  up  a  position  with  his  back  to  the  light,  leaning 
against  the  wall  below  the  grating.  Meanwhile  Scroop 
had  opened  the  door,  and  there  entered  a  bland-looking 
man,  who  glanced  swiftly  at  Randolph. 

"Ah,  the  jailer  told  me  I  should  find  you  here.  I  have 
merely  come  to  have  my  little  conversation  with  your 
brother.  I  will  not  interrupt  you  long." 

Randolph  perceived  that  this  must  be  Mr.  Philips. 
The  little  man  turned  to  Hugo,  who  merely  bowed  to  him, 
and  then  once  more  leant  back  against  the  wall  with 
folded  arms. 

"Well,  Mr.  Wharncliffe,  I  hope  I  see  you  better.  What 
do  you  think  of  our  National  Thanksgiving,  eh  ?  What,  still 
playing  the  mute  ?  I  hoped  you  had  tired  of  that  game. 
But  in  truth  I  have  some  news  for  you  this  morning.  I 
have  been  to  the  Tower,  and  have  seen  your  friend 
Sydney." 

Hugo's  face  relaxed  a  little,  and  a  very  eager  look 
dawned  in  his  eyes. 

"  How  is  he  ?  "  he  asked  anxiously. 

"  Nay,"  said  Philips,  "  why  should  I  tell  you  what  you 
would  fain  know,  when  you  will  not  tell  me  aught  th  t  I 
desire  ?  Promise  to  give  evidence  against  the  cok  nel, 
and  I'll  not  only  tell  you  about  him,  but  I'll  bear  you  to 
him  this  very  day." 

Hugo  vouchsafed  no  answer  to  this.  Philips  con- 
tinued, more  warmly, 

"You  know  that  your  fate  is  in  your  own  hands.  Tis 
in  your  own  power  to  make  yourself  what  you  will,  for 
you  know  this  rogue  Sydney  is  a  traitor,  and  you  may 
make  yourself  what  you  will,  'I  you  will  discover  what 
you  know  of  his  designs  against  the  government." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  said  Hugo  sternly.  "  I  could  say 
naught  that  could  touch  a  hair  of  Colonel  Sydney's  head. 
I  have  told  you  so  a  hundred  times. " 

"If  I  might  advise  the  King,"  said  Philips,  wrathfully, 


•50  tff  THE  GOLDS  &  DAYS. 

"  I  would  bid  him  have  all  you  damned  Whig  rogues 
hanged.  The  colonel  sent  a  message  to  you,  moreover," 
he  continued,  tantalteingly  ;  "but  it  is  impossible  for  me 
to  deliver  it  while  you  still  keep  up  this  stubborn  resist- 
ance." 

And  thus  in  much  the  same  strain  the  interview  went 
dn,  Philips  alternately  coaxing  and  threatening-,  Hugo 
loftily  silent,  his  face  stern,  his  lips  firmly  set,  his  eyes, 
which  just  before  had  been  so  languid,  full  of  strength  and 
resistance.* 

At  length  the  questioner's  patience  was  exhausted,  and 
h&  took  his  leave. 

"You  may  think  to  baffle  me,  Mr.  Wharncliffe,"  he 
said,  angrily,  "and  for  a  time  you  may  succeed,  but  in 
the  end  you  will  be  forced  to  succumb.  Mark  my  words, 
there  are  worse  things  in  our  power  than  you  wot  of.  I 
have  known  folk  not  allowed  to  sleep  by  day  or  by  night 
for  weeks  that  evidence  might  be  gained  I  shall  see 
you  again  on  the  morrow." 

Hugo  bowed,  but  made  no  reply,  and  Philips,  rapping 
loudly  on  the  door,  was  released  by  Scroop,  who  had  re- 
mained Outside.  When  the  door  had  been  closed  and 
locked,  Hugo,  with  an  air  of  great  exhaustion,  recrossed 
the  cell,  and  once  more  lay  down  on  the  bed. 

"That  is  over,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  in  a  tone  of 
relief. 

"You  dread  Mr.  Philips,  then  ? "  said  Randolph, 

Hugo  started. 

"I  had  forgot  you  were  there,**  he  said.  "  No,  I  do  not 
drea  the  man,  but  I  dread  myself*  Oh  !  must  you  go  ? " 
as  Randolph  rose  and  began  to  readjust  his  cloak.  "Will 
you  not  stay  yet  a  little  while  ?  There  is  so  much  I  would 
lisk  you, — and  who  knows  if  we  shall  meet  again?" 

There  was  such  entreaty  in  his  voice  that  Randolph  eat 
«Jown  once  more. 

"We  shall  meet  again  at  your  trial,"  he  said,  coldly. 
"Have  you  not  remembered  that  I  shall  have  to  beal 
witness  against  you  ?  *' 

*  Ambrose  Philips  was  really  employed  to  extort  evidence  against 
Sydney  from  one  Aaron  Smith,  who  was  kept  for  some  time  a  prisoner. 
See  Ewald's  Lift  of  Sydney*  Meadley  says  that  prisons  were  ransacked* 
and  menaces  and  persuasions  alternately  employed  among  the  prisoners^ 
in  order  to  get  a  second  witness  tc  prove  Sydney's  treason,  but  none 
oOttld  be  found. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  951 

" Yes,"  said  Hugo.  "But  perchance  that  may  never 
come  off.  There  is  a  deliverer  on  whom  Ambrose  Philips 
does  not  reckon.  Every  second  day  the  fever  returns  to 
me,  and  with  that  a  chance  of  death.  But  I  waste  th« 
time.  Tell  me  of  Jeremiah — of  the  Denhams. " 

Randolph  had  not  the  heart  to  refuse  his  request. 

"  You  don't  kno\  what  it  is  to  have  you  to  talk  to,"  he 
said,  gratefully;  "th.  days  are  like  eternity." 

"They  do  not  permit  books?  " 

"No ;  I  have  naught  to  pass  the  time  save  an  old  bit  of 
charcoal,  with  which  I  can  draw,  and  a  rat  which  I  have 
tamed.  Were  it  not  for  those,  I  should  have  gone  mad. " 

"By  your  own  confession,  you  see,  you  are  altogether 
miserable.  Why,  then,  be  such  a  fool  as  to  stay  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Hugo,  quietly,  "  I  am  not  wholly  miserable. 
Can  you  not  understand  that  'tis  sweet  to  feel  you  hold 
the  safety  of  two  men  in  your  keeping  ?  Did  I  betray 
them,  then  indeed  I  should  be,  and  d  erve  to  be,  right 
miserable.  What  1  one  o'clock  by  St.  Sepulchre's  ? " 

"  Ay ;  is  that  your  dinner-hour?  "  asked  Randolph. 

Hugo  smiled  faintly. 

"  One  does  not  dine  in  Newgate,"  he  said.  "  But  this 
is  the  hour  when  my  fever  returns.  Perchance  it  were, 
after  all,  best  that  you  should  go. " 

Randolph  half  hesitated.  Truth  to  tell,  he  wanted  his 
own  dinner,  and  yet  a  vague  uneasiness  prompted  him  to 
stay  with  his  brother.  He  looked  down  at  him  intently, 
and  that  look  made  him  decide  to  stay.  For,  true  to 
Hugo's  prediction,  the  paroxysm  of  ague  had  already  be- 
gun. He  had  turned  ghastly  pale,  his  lips  were  blue,  his 
face  haggard  and  drawn.  Randolph  thought  him  dying. 

"  There  is  naught  to  fear,"  he  said,  speaking  as  well 
as  he  could  with  chattering  teeth.  "  It  is  ever  like  this." 

But  Randolph  did  fear.  For  soon  Hugo  was  shivering 
from  head  to  foot,  and  a  strange  blue  shade  had  over- 
spread his  face. 

"  Do  they  not  even  allow  straw  in  this  wretched  hole  ?  " 
said  Randolph,  wrathfully. 

"  No,"  he  replied ;  "  for  fear  of  fire." 

To  speak  of  fear  of  fire  in  that  miserable,  damp  dungeon 
seemed  a  mockery.  With  an  oath,  Randolph  tore  off  both 
his  cloak  and  doublet  and  wrapped  them  round  the  shiv- 
ering form. 

"  Is  that  better? "  he  asked. 


252  MT  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

Btv.  there  was  no  reply.  Hugo  seemed  to  be  drifting 
away  into  unconsciousness.  Was  it  the  unconsciousness 
of  death? 

"  He  shall  not  die  !  "  said  Randolph  to  himself.  "  He 
shall  not ! "  And,  with  a  pang,  Hugo's  own  words  re- 
turned to  him — "  Tis  sweet  to  feel  you  hold  the  safety  of 
others  in  your  keeping." 

Sweet  I  It  was  hideous  beyond  description — it  was  in- 
tolerable !  But  his  brother  should  not  die  ;  death  should 
not  deliver  him.  His  life  was  too  precious  to  be  lost. 
Not  that  Randolph  would  permit  himself  weaxly  to  be 
turned  from  his  purpose  by  the  sight  of  a  little  pain. 
Hugo  should  remain  in  Newgate  till  he  had  been  forced 
into  giving  evidence,  but  he  should  not  stay  another  day 
even  in  that  pestilent  dungeon.  He  rapped  loudly  at  the 
door  to  attract  Scroop's  attention  ;  but  the  jailer  was  out 
of  hearing,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  had  forgotten  him.  He 
knocked,  he  swore,  he  stormed,  all  to  no  purpose. 

"  Must  you  go  ? "  said  Hugo,  reviving  a  little. 

"  No,  but  I  want  to  send  that  varlet  to  fetch  blankets 
for  you.  A  plague  on  his  foolish  pate.  Why  doth  he  not 
hear  ?  " 

"  Never  mind  ;  a  dozen  blankets  would  not  warm  me. 
Moreover,  I  am  well  used  to  it." 

Randolph  stood  watching  him  in  miserable  helpless- 
ness. At  length,  prompted  by  common-sense,  he  sat 
down  on  the  stony  pillow  and  lifted  Hugo  so  that  his 
head  and  shoulders  rested  against  him  instead  of  upon 
the  stones. 

"Ah  !  that  is  better,"  he  said,  and  spite  of  the  pain  and 
misery,  a  look  of  relief — almost  of  happiness — stole  over 
his  worn  face. 

They  did  not  speak  much,  but  for  hours  Randolph  held 
him  in  his  strong  arms  and  did  what  he  could  for  him, 
Hugo  responding  with  the  sort  of  dog-like  gratitude  with 
which  he  had  always  accepted  kindness  from  his  guardian. 
At  length,  -when  the  shivering  fits  had  given  place  to  rag- 
ing fever  and  thirst,  when  the  third  and  final  stage  of  the 
attack  was  over  and  had  left  the  patient  worn  out  and 
drowsy,  Randolph  once  more  resumed  his  doublet  and 
hat,  and  this  time  succeeded  in  attracting  Scroop's  notice. 

"  Had  as  much  as  you  like  of  dungeon  life,  sir? "  asked 
the  jailer. 

"  Ay,  and  the  prisoner  hath  had  too  much,"  said 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  253 

dolph.  Then  bending  down  over  his  brother,  "  It  shall 
be  your  last  night  in  this  hole,  trust  me." 

Hastily  embracing  him  he  turned  away,  and  was  con- 
ducted by  Scroop  to  the  upper  regions. 

"  Ah,  my  Ratto,"  said  Hugo,  as  his  little  brown  friend 
appeared  the  moment  the  cell  was  quiet  once  more,  "  you 
and  your  family  may  dance  all  night  as  you  will,  I'll  not 
grumble  ;  for  to-morrow,  Ratto,  I  shall  breathe  freely 
once  more,  to-morrow  I  shall  have  better  company  than 
you." 

But  when  the  next  evening  he  thought  things  over,  he 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  wronged  Ratto. 


CHAPTER  XXVL 

CLEVELAND    HOUSE. 

Oh,  most  delicate  fiend  I 
Who  is't  can  read  a  woman  ? 

Cymbthx*. 

AFTER  the  first  moment  of  intense  relief  on  breathing  the 
fresh  air  in  Newgate  Street,  Randolph  fell  into  a  train  of 
very  unpleasant  thought.  The  struggle  first  awakened  in  his 
mind  by  that  curious  rhyme  in  the  church  returned  now 
with  tenfold  force.  He  could  not  get  his  will,  at  any  rate 
at  present ;  but  neither  could  he  make  up  his  mind  to  re- 
sign his  will  and  accept  defeat  at  the  hands  of  his  younger 
brother.  Without  accepting  defeat,  he  could  not  save  Huge 
from  the  hard  fate  that  awaited  him.  In  this  strait  whal 
was  he  to  do  ?  Not  for  long  years  had  so  sharp  a  strug- 
gle raged  within  him,  not  for  long  years  had  the  good  so 
nearly  triumphed. 

He  had  walked  gloomily  along  Fleet  Street,  chafed  and 
annoyed  by  the  loyal  crowd  who  were  preparing-  the  even- 
ing illuminations.  Somehow  this  thanksgiving  grated  on 
him,  seemed  to  his  guilty  conscience  but  a  hideous  mock- 
ery. Again  and  again  he  heard  Hugo's  voice  dreamily 
repeating,  "How  merry  the  bells  sound,"  and  he  shud« 
dered  as  he  remembered  the  dreary  prison  cell. 

By  this  time  he  had  reached  the  entrance  to  th*»  Temple^ 


S$4  /&  THE 

and  for  a  moment  he  stood  irresolute,  vaguely  listening 
to  the  bells  of  St.  Clement's,  vaguely  watching  the  men 
and  boys  as  they  heaped  fagots  upon  a  bonfire  hard  by. 
Should  he  go  home  to  encounter  Jeremiah's  stern  face  and 
unspoken  reproaches,  or  should  he  divert  his  thoughts 
from  the  unpleasant  subject  altogether  and  go  to  Cleve- 
land House  ?  He  looked  past  the  bonfire  in  the  direction 
of  the  Strand,  he  looked  to  the  left  towards  the  dark  and 
quiet  Temple.  Which  was  it  to  be  ?  His  whole  future 
life  hung  upon  the  choice,  little  as  he  was  aware  of  the 
fact.  An  insignificant  turning-point,  a  decision  which 
seemed  scarce  worth  pausing  over,  but,  as  is  so  often  the 
case,  one  upon  which  hung  great  issues. 

The  chambers  in  King's  Bench  Walk  rose  vividly  before 
him — the  empty  chair,  the  untouched  books,  the  silence, 
the  sad-faced  serving-man.  Why,  it  would  all  reproach 
him,  all  re-echo  the  inward  voice  of  his  self-reproach. 
He  could  not  bear  it  He  must  seek  diversion,  dancing, 
drink,  flattery,  vice,  anything,  he  cared  not  what,  so  that 
it  would  take  him  out  of  his  true  self.  He  turned  into  the 
"  Grecian,"  made  a  hasty  meal,  then  threading  his  way 
through  the  crowded  streets,  sought  refuge  from  his  tor- 
menting thoughts  in  the  costly  and  magnificent  house — a 
palace  in  all  but  the  name — which  had  been  built  for  the 
Duchess  of  Cleveland.  This  evening  it  was  quieter  than 
usual,  for  there  were  festivities  at  Whitehall,  and  the  duch- 
ess would  have  been  there  herself  had  she  not  been  de- 
tained by  a  slight  indisposition.  Randolph  was  ushered 
through  stately  corridors  and  gorgeous  buttenantless  rooms 
to  a  little  boudoir  which  he  knew  right  well.  It  was  a  charm- 
ing little  room ;  the  most  beautiful  tapestry  hung  upon 
the  walls,  the  softest  skin  rugs  covered  the  floor,  a  cheer- 
ful wood  fire  threw  its  mellow  light  upon  one  of  Grindling 
Gibbon's  most  delicately  carved  chimney-pieces,  and  wax- 
candles  disposed  here  and  there  beneath  rose-colored 
shades  diffused  a  soft  glow  on  all  around.  At  one  end  of 
the  room  an  open  doorway,  half  veiled  by  silken  draperies 
of  gold  and  crimson,  betrayed  a  vision  of  white-robed 
attendants  with  lutes,  harps,  and  guitars,  and  as  Ran- 
dolph entered  a  girl's  voice  was  filling  the  room  with  the 
exquisite  air  and  the  abominable  words  of  one  of  the 
songs  of  the  day.  Beside  the  wood  fire  in  the  boudoir  sat 
the  Duchess  of  Cleveland,  her  shapely  head  with  its  rich 
brown  curls  resting  in  languid  comfort  among  crimson 


GOLDEN  DA  YS.  255 

velvet  cushions,  her  tiny  feet  stretched  out  to  the  blaze 
upon  a  French  tabouret,  her  long,  loose  dress  of  creamy 
Indian  silk  falling  in  rich  folds  on  the  tiger-skin  rug,  and 
her  swan-like  neck  partly  veiled  by  a  soft,  white  fur  tippet 
which  she  had  drawn  around  her. 

"Ah,  is  it  you,  Randolph  ? "  she  said,  smiling  and  mo- 
tioning him  to  a  seat  beside  her.  'You  have  come  to 
cheer  me  in  my  desolation.  I  took  cold  upon  the  river 
last  night,  and  so  dare  not  share  in  the  Whitehall  festival." 

So  carefully  and  delicately  did  her  attendants  dispose 
the  rouge  and  powder,  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to 
believe  the  duchess  to  be  a  middle-aged  woman.  She 
had  all  the  charms  of  youth  and  all  the  savoir-faire  and 
acute  observation  of  a  woman  of  great  experience.  Her 
pencilled  eyebrows,  her  large,  lustrous  dark  eyes,  her 
finely  chiselled  nose  with  its  arched  nostrils,  and  her  full, 
red  lips,  bore  an  expression  of  calm,  haughty  conscious- 
ness of  power.  Looking  far  younger  than  Randolph  she 
was  in  truth  some  years  his  senior,  and,  while  seeming 
only  to  charm  and  amuse  him,  she  ruled  over  him  des- 
potically. In  his  heart  he  was  aware  that  he  was  her 
slave,  but  this  was  a  slavery  which  he  did  not  deem  bond- 
age. It  was  the  fashion.  What  then  !  he  must  follow  with 
the  multitude,  and  there  was  no  shame  connected  with  such 
conquest.  But  to  be  conquered  by  principles,  to  own  the 
sovereignty  of  conscience,  to  sacrifice  present  gain  to 
some  shadowy  notion  of  right,  this  was  a  "bondage" 
which  he  could  not  endure,  which,  in  fact,  he  had  not  the 
courage  to  face.  He  had  come  to  Cleveland  House  to  be 
soothed  out  of  the  rugged  vision  of  hateful  duty,  of  hu- 
miliating reparation  which  had  dawned  upon  him.  He 
had  come  because  his  love  of  Hugo  had  made  him  miser- 
able and  because  his  love  of  self  made  him  hate  the  mis- 
ery, and  because  in  good  truth,  vice  was  so  easy  and  nat- 
ural, and  the  first  steps  in  virtue  so  perplexing  and  hard. 

"  I  cannot  so  much  as  smell  a  flower,"  said  the  duchess, 
laughing  and  taking  from  her  bosom  a  cluster  of  red  roses, 
"There,  you  happy  mortal,  exempt  from  colds  and 
coughs  !  bear  them  for  me.  Oh,  crimini !  how  he  crushes 
my  poor  gift  in  his  manly  grasp  !  Thou  art  out  of  temper 
to-night,  mon  ami." 

"And  therefore  I  came  to  you,"  he  said,  looking  at  her 
bright  laughing  eyes. 

"That  is  ever  the  fate  of  women, "  said  the  duchess^pout- 


«5&  \W  THE  GOLDEN 

ing  and  it-arranging  hei  dress.  She  haci  taper  fingers,  but 
her  wrists  were  large  and  ugly.  "  When  the  men  are  worth 
talking  to  they  stay  away.  When  they  are  in  the  dumps 
they  come  and  expect  to  be  amused,  for  all  the  world  like 
peevish  nursery  imps.  I  dare  swear  it  is  that  brother 
of  yours  who  troubles  your  peace.  Ah !  1  thought  as 
much  : 

"  I  ;-iave  seen  him  this  day.  He  is  ill,  well-nig\ 
dying."  , 

"  That  must  not  be  allowed,"  said  the  duchess,  decid- 
edly. "  What,  have  they  been  starving  him  ?  " 

"  They  have  done  their  worst  to  him,  and  he  will  re- 
veal naught.  Misery  seems  to  have  no  power  to  shake 
him  from  his  purpose. " 

"  He  was  ever  obstinate  as  a  mule,  our  little  Court 
saint,''  said  the  duchess.  "But  since  misery  will  not 
move  him,  try  yet  another  plan.  Let  him  have  the  best  pri- 
vate cell  which  Newgate  will  afford,  and  I  will  send  a 
sweet  little  temptress  to  nurse  him  into  health  and  to 
play  the  part  of  a  Delilah." 

Randolph  did  not  speak,  there  was  a  curious  look  of 
doubt  and  hesitation  in  his  face. 

"  What !  art  turning  Puritan  ?  "  said  the  duchess,  with 
a  mocking  laugh. 

"  A  very  idle  question,  f^ir  lady,"  he  /eplied,  with  a 
slightly  sarcastic  smile,  "  while  I  sit  here  \n  this  palace 
of  delight  However,  you  know  well  that  in  some  sense 
Hugo  may  be  accounted  one." 

"  That  was  all  very  well  when  he  was  a  pretty,  pale- 
taccd  boy.  But  now  he  is  a  man.  and  ought  to  pay  his 
devoirs  to  beauty  and  love.  He  must  be  brought  down  from 
his  lofty  heights,  ver  kindly  and  tenderly  an  you  will, 
but  he  must  be  brought  do  \,  n,  else  will  you  never  gain 
from  him  what  you  would.  Why  should  you  object? 

"Twill  be  a  kindness  to  send  him  what  will  best  cheer 
his  solitude.  And  as  to  my  little  Blanchette,  she  will  be 
the  queen  of  his  heart  ere  another  day  fs  over.  No  man 
can  resist  Blanchette.  I  will  call  her. " 

The  duchess  touched  a  little  silver  bell  which  stood  be- 
side her,  and  immediately  one  of  the  white-robed  attend- 
ants appeared  at  the  doorway,  with  one  hand  holding 
back  the  silken  curtain  which  hung  in  soft  sheeny  folds 
in  each  side  of  her  She  was  a  beautiful  creature,  tall 
^racetul,  with  snowy  neck  and  *rms,  masses  of  loose 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  95} 

flj.xen  hair,  and  eyes  which  were  constantly  veiling 
th-nu  elves  >eneath  dark  lashes  as  though  modestly  con- 
scious of  their  >wn  power. 

"  What  wasthenr.me  of  your  song,  Blanch  ette  ?  "asked 
the  duchess. 

"  It  •>.'£»  P.  love  §c n^-,  by  my  Lord  Rochester,"  said  the 
girl,  in  a  high,  clear  voice,  in  which  there  were  pleasant 
modulations. 

"  It  suite  you  we".,  go  si  g  another  like  it  After  that 
you  may  close  tho  door." 

The  girl  curtseyed  and  withdrew,  and  ere  long  another 
pass!  mate  song  thrilled  through  both  ante-room  and 
boudoir.  Then  the  door  was  softly  closed,  and  there  was 
silence. 

"  Well,  shall  we  try  her?"  said  the  duchess. 

"  Perchance  It  might  be  as  well,"  said  Randolph. 

"  Still  doubtful, '  said  the  duchess,  Ir.ughing-.  Why, 
man  ami,  St.  Antony  him-e^  couldn't  h  ve  resisted  her.  I 
see  a  triumphant  end  to  all  ,  our  trouble." 

Randolph  did  not  speak  His  eye  had  fallen  upon  a 
mirror,  which  hui  g  ;  n  the  opposite  wall.  In  it  he 
could  see  the  refleciior.  o-  ^ie  luxuriou  room,  of  the  magi- 
cal lights,  of  the  '  au-  I  duchess  with  her  pearl  earrings 
and  necklace,  of  him  '!£  y  g  on  the  tiger-skin  rug  at 
her  feet 

Another  picture  rose  b  f  >e  him.  A  dank  prison  wall, 
a  gleam  of  chill  light  from  a  v  arrow  grating,  a  man  stand- 
ing beneath  it  with  folded  aim:,  set  V  s,  stern  brow,  bear- 
ing threats  and  taunts  in  Silenoe,  rejecting  bribes  with 
scorn. 

And  the  duchess  spoke  lightly  and  cheerfully  of  a  "  tri- 
umphant end  " 

"Well,  it  would  be  worth  while  to  triumph  over  that 
other  ! — that  oiher  whose  picture  contrasted  so  unpleas- 
antly with  the  reflec^on  in  tru  mirror.  He  would  like  to 
triumph  over  him,  he  ould  rike  to  falsify  that  picture,  he 
would  like  tu  drag  Mm  !own,  he  Tinted  him  for  his  resist- 
ance. He  d?\oiL'*.  i*ot  <:ic,  Vc  should  no*  triumph,  he 
should  be  dragged  down,  and  be  a  little  lowor  than  him- 
se1£ 

"You  hrv.e  cheered  mo/  !ic  srJd,  turning  to  the  du- 
che««  w5lb  ;  rm:Ic  iu  Ms  das??  eyes,  in  v/hbl.  there  lurked 
already  the  ;^ticipr.iior.  of  victory,     ' '  An  you  will  indeed 
spare  h-r,  Blan^hgtte  shall  try  her  skill 
17 


lit  THE  GOLDEN DAYS. 


CHAPTER  XXVtt. 

THE  TRIAL. 

This  man  is  great  with  little  state, 

Lord  of  the  world  epitomized  : 

Who  with  staid  front  out-faceth  fate : 

And,  being  empty,  is  sufficed— 

Or  is  sufficed  with  little,  since  (at  least), 

He  makes  his  conscience  a  perpetual  feast. 

JOHN  DAVIES    (i6ts). 

SCROOP  had  never  been  deficient  in  that  which  should  be 
a  marked  characteristic  in  a  jailer,— he  had  never  lacked 
a  habit  of  observation.  At  the  same  time,  he  had  never 
observed  any  prisoner  with  such  ^.cutcnesc  as  he  observed 
Hugo  Wharncliffe.  He  had  watched  men  in  the  mass,  he 
had  watched  them  as  cases,  but  h "  had  never  before 
watched  them  with  deep  int  rest  as  in  'ividuals.  On  the 
night  of  Hugo's  arrival  in  June,  Scroop  had  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  wondered.  Through  those  dreary  August 
days,  watching  his  prisoner  in  the  du  geon  as  he  fought 
against  fever,  depression,  and  misery,  Scroop  wondered 
still,  and  grew  pitiful.  Through  the  six  weeks  of  fierce, 
unmitigated  temptation  that  followed  the  elder  brother's 
visit,  Scroop  wondered  more  and  more,  and  grew  rever- 
ential. At  length  there  came  a  day  when  Blanchette  failed 
to  appear  at  Newgate,  and  thereupon  the  jailer  was  sum- 
moned into  the  governor's  private  room. 

"Mr.  Wharncliffe  hath  recovered  from  his  illness ?  " 

"Ay,  sir.     He  seems  well  enough." 

"Good.  Then  remove  him  this  day  to  the  Common 
Debtor's  Ward.  Tis  well  he  should  try  a  change  of 
air." 

Scroop  dutifully  grinned  in  recognition  of  his  superior's 
jest,  and  at  once  proceeded  to  obey  his  orders. 

The  room  to  which  Hugo  had  been  removed  was  dry, 
well-aired,  and  by  no  means  uncomfortable  ;  he  probably 
owed  his  life  to  the  change.  As  Scroop  opened  the  door, 
the  prisoner  looked  up  apprehensively  ;  when  he  perceived 


JN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  259 

Hat  the  jailer  was  alone,  he  could  not  repress  a  look  of 
relief 

The  six  weeks'  temptation  had  left  very  visible  marks 
upon  his  face.  It  was  no  longer  possible  to  forget  that  he 
was  a  man — the  words  "boy"  and  "lad"  which  had 
nitherto  most  naturally  come  to  the  lips  in  speaking  of 
him,  were  no  longer  appropriate.  The  dreamy  look  in 
nis  eyes  had  given  place  to  a  quiet  vigilance.  The  sweet- 
tempered  mouth  had  become  sterner  and  straighter — youth 
nad  passed  forever. 

"I  am  to  be  removed,  Scroop  ?  That  is  well,"  he  said, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Your  honor  does  not  ask  whither,"  said  the  jailer. 

"  I  care  not,"  said  Hugo.  "  So  it  be  from  here,  and 
irom "  He  broke  off  and  relapsed  into  silence. 

Scroop  felt  sorry  for  bis  charge.  And  yet,  since  he  had 
field  his  own  through  such  numberless  temptations,  why 
should  he  not  hold  his  own  still,  even  in  the  degraded 
Atmosphere  of  the  common  jail  ? 

Truth  to  tell,  the  change  was  at  first  welcome  to  Hugo. 

It  was  a  relief  to  see  fresh  faces,  even  though  they  were 
reckless  and  often  wicked  faces ;  it  was  a  relief  to  hear 
once  more  the  babel  of  many  voices,  and  it  needed  all  his 
new  strength  to  resist  the  craving  which  came  over  him  to 
loin  the  majority  in  drowning  wretchedness  in  drink,  and 
whiling  away  the  weary  days  by  reckless  play.  He  had 
oeen  in  this  new  ward  about  a  fortnight,  when  one  day 
ne  was  ordered  into  the  governor's  presence. 

"You  had  best  be  preparing  your  defence,  Mr.  Wharn- 
tliffe,"  said  the  governor.  "For  a  Habeus  Corpus  hath 
oeen  brought  unto  me,  and  I  am  ordered  to  bring  you 
oefore  the  Court  of  King's  Bench  on  the  morrow." 

"To-morrow  I"  exclaimed  Hugo,  hardlj  knowing 
whether  he  were  relieved  at  the  news  or  not.  "Am  I  not 
to  be  allowed  counsel  ?  " 

"No,  sir,"  replied  the  governor. 

"  I  suppose  I  can  have  a  copy  of  the  indictment  ? "  said 
Hugo,  frowning  slightly,  for  he  was  greatly  perplexed  to 
Know  what  possible  defence  he  could  make. 

' '  Oh  I  yes,  you  can  have  that, "  said  the  governor, 
coolly.  "And  much  may  it  help  you." 

Hugo  read  it  in  silence.  Then  he  looked  up  boldly ; 
not  that  he  felt  any  confidence  whatever,  but  that  he 
would  not  let  the  srovernor  see  his  hopelessness. 


jfo  Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

" I  desire  to  subposna  two  witnesses,"  he  said.  "Su 
William  Denham  of  Norfolk  Street,  also  Mr.  Aupert 
Den  ham." 

"It  shall  be  done,"  said  the  governor.  "Thevhave 
both  of  them  been  here  full  oft  desiring  to  see  you.  Twill 
at  any  rate  look  well  to  h~ve  such  a  Tory  name  as  Den- 
ham  witnessing  in  your  behalf." 

Hugo  made  no  answer.  He  kn^w  that  the  omy  wit- 
nesses who  could  avail  him  aught  were  at  Mondisfield 
Hall,  knew  that  there  could  be  but  one  end  to  the  trial. 

He  slept  little  that  night,  looking  forward  with  a  curious 
mixture  of  pain  and  pleasure  to  the  coming  day.  It  would 
be  bitter  beyond  all  thought  to  see  Randolph  arraigned 
against  him,  yet  it  would  be  inexpressibly  delightful  to 
breathe  fresh  air  once  more,  to  see  the  world  again,  to  see 
and  perhaps  speak  with  his  old  friends. 

Early  in  the  morning  he  was  taken  in  a  hackney  coach 
to  Westminster;  the  change  of  scene  was  less  enjoyable 
than  he  had  expected,  he  felt  dazed,  confused,  ana  terribly 
unequal  to  the  work  which  lay  before  him.  Moreover, 
the  sun  was  not  shining,  as  he  had  hoped.  It  was  a 
gloomy  November  morning,  and  he  could  only  catch 
a  glimpse  of  the  Abbey,  looming  drearily  out  of  the  river 
fog. 

He  tried  to  fancy  himself  once  more  a  Westminster  boy, 
tried  to  think  this  was  all  some  hideous  dream ; — and 
indeed  it  scarcely  felt  real  to  him  when  the  coach  drew 
up  at  the  entrance  to  Westminster  Hall,  and  he  was 
marshalled  through  the  staring  crowd,  to  find  himself,  not 
in  his  wonted  place  taking  notes  of  the  case  among  a  group 
of  careless  Templars,  but  as  a  prisoner  at  the  bar.  He 
glanced  hastily  around,  noting  many  familiar  races,  the 
sight  of  which  disturbed  him  sc  much  that  he  was  glad  to 
sit  down  and  busy  himself  with  some  papers  which  he 
had  brought,  with  a  few  notes  ay  to  his  defence.  He  felt 
that  Randolph  was  present,  but  could  not  bear  to  look  at 
him  ;  he  knew  that  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  wr.s  darkly 
regarding  him,  but,  having  oncv  bowed  to  him  he  would 
not  cast  one  glance  in  his  direction,  for  he  fearer1  Jeffreys, 
and  was  afraid  of  showing  his  fear,  and  ashamed  of  the 
weakness  which  yet  he  had  never  been  able  to  overcome. 
There  was  not  much  time  for  thought ;  all  was  proceeded 
with  very  rapidly,  the  names  of  the  jury  hurried  through, 
the  indictment  read,  and  the  case  opened  by  tre  counsel 


Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  301 

for  the  prosecution.  Hugo  tried  hard  to  listen,  tried  hard 
to  think,  but  the  speech  reached  him  in  very  disjointed 
fashion.  He  was  vaguely  conscious  that  Mr.  Ingram,  in 
a  clear,  ringing,  attractive  voice,  was  saying  that  he  would 
prove  the  prisoner  to  be  a  member  of  the  Green  Ribbon 
Club,  a  personal  friend  of  Algernon  Sydney,  one  who 
protected  conventiclers,  a  betrayer  of  trust,  a  hater  of 
monarchy,  and  a  concealer  of  treason  of  the  deepest 
dye. 

The  speech  was  an  effective  one.  At  the  close  the  wit- 
nesses for  the  Crown  were  called,  and  the  first  name  which 
rang  through  the  court  was  that  of  Randolph  Wharncliffe. 
The  prisoner  seemed  to  come  to  himself  as  the  familiar 
name  fell  upon  his  ear.  He  drew  himself  together,  sat 
more  erect,  looked  up  calmly  for  the  first  time,  unmindful 
of  the  myriad  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  —  mindful  only  of  the 
face  which  he  had  not  seen  for  so  many  weeks.  He 
watched  his  brother  keenly  as  the  oath  was  administered 
to  him.  Did  he  think  of  that  scene  in  the  gallery  at  Mon- 
disfield,  when  another  oath  had  been  administered  on  the 
nun's  cross  ?  If  so,  the  thought  left  no  trace  on  his  stem 
brow  ;  he  looked  hard,  austere,  as  though  he  hated  the 


work  before  him,  but  meant  to  go  through  it  unscrupu- 
lously. Then,  skilfully  aided  by  questions  from  Mr. 
Ingram,  Randolph  unfolded  the  whole  story  of  Hugo's 


two  visits  to  Mondisfield,  omitting  only,  or  adroitly  veil- 
ing, all  that  could  make  his  own  share  in  the  work  appear 
dishonorable  —  omitting,  of  course,  the  scene  with  the 
pistol. 

Indignation  at  this  incomplete  version  began  to  stir  in 
Hugo's  heart,  and  a  pang  of  wrathful  pleasure  possessed 
him  when  he  remembered  that  it  was  in  his  power  to  cross- 
examine  the  witness.  He  would  punishhim  —  would  drag 
from  his  lips  the  disgraceful  confession  of  that  midnight 
scene  —  would  show  forth  before  all  men  the  villiany  that 
had  led  him  astray.  Revenge  at  least  was  in  his  power, 
and  revenge  he  would  have.  His  eyes  flashed  so  strangely 
that  the  spectators  wondered  what  had  come  to  the  pris- 
oner, who  at  first  had  been  so  passive  and  downcast 

And  yet?  —  and  yet?  Was  it  for  him  to  think  of  venge- 
ance? Was  he  —  the  greatly  forgiven  —  to  harbor  wrath- 
ful feelings  ?  Was  he  to  treat  his  brother  as  though  there 
were  no  tie  between  them  —  no  deathless  bond  of  kinship? 
Well,  Randolph  had  broken  the  bonds,—  had  treated  him 


*63  If  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

shamefully  Why  should  he  not  follow  his  example! 
Why  should  he  not  have  his  turn  now  1 

"If  you  have  any  questions  to  put  to  the  witness,'" 
bawled  Jeffreys,  "  put  them  at  once." 

Hugo  stood  up.  Burning  words  were  on  his  lips,— • 
words  which  would  have  shamed  Randolph  before  the 
whole  court,— questions  to  which  he  could  but  have  given 
one  reply.  Nothing  could  have  altered  the  inevitable 
result  of  the  trial,  but  this  would  have  brought  to  light 
Randolph's  villainy,  and  proved  the  strongest  excuse  for 
himself;  but  at  that  moment  another  trial  scene  flashed 
before  his  mind — the  vision  of  another  prisoner — and  with 
that  a  loathing  of  his  selfish  anger  and  petty  revenge, 
and  withal  a  recollection  of  what  love  and  brotherhood 
meant. 

"  Of  my  brother  I  ask  no  question,"  he  said,  quietly  ; 
and  resumed  his  seat  amid  murmurs  of  surprise. 

Only  Randolph  fully  understood  all  that  was  involved 
in  the  prisoner's  silence.  A  sudden  flush  overspread  his 
dark  face  ;  he  left  the  witness-box  hastily,  and  passed 
through  the  crowd  with  a  face  so  troubled  and  downcast 
that  many  of  the  observant  people  remarked  that  it  must 
be  hard  on  an  elder  brother  to  bear  such  family  disgrace  ; 
they  felt  sorry  for  Mr.  Wharncliffe. 

John  Pettit,  landlord  of  the  "White  Horse,"  Mondis- 
field,  next  deposed  to  the  prisoner's  presence  at  his  inn 
on  the  fifth  of  October  of  the  previous  year,  and  corrobo- 
rated Randolph's  assertion  that  Hugo  had  accompanied 
his  brother  in  the  evening.  Hugo  put  two  or  three  ques- 
tions to  him,  but  chiefly  for  the  pleasure  of  speaking  to  one 
who  knew  Joyce. 

Sir  Peregrine  Blake  and  other  witnesses  followed,  and 
there  was  much  discussion  upon  the  papers  found  in  Colo- 
jel  Wharncliffe's  room.  Then  Hugo  was  told  to  enter 
upon  his  defence.  Sir  William  and  Rupert  listened  now 
anxiously,  and  were  in  truth  astonished  at  the  prisoner's 
intrepid  bearing.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  spoken 
in  public,  and  to  speak  amid  the  perpetual  interruptions 
of  Jeffreys  was  no  easy  matter.  However,  he  went  stead- 
ily on,  knowing  that  the  defence  was  useless,  yet  with 
simple  directness  putting  forward  the  sole  plea  which  was 
left  to  him.  He  was  charged  with  misprision  of  treason, 
but  it  had  yet  to  be  proved  that  treasonable  matter  was 
contained  in  the  particular  book  of  manuscripts  which  he 


Uf  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  263 

had  concealed,  it  had  yet  to  be  proved  that  treasonable 
words  had  been  spoken  at  the  meeting  at  Mondisfield. 
They  had  but  the  witness  of  one  man  to  these  facts  ;  he 
submitted  that  the  treason  was  only  inferred,  and  not 
proven. 

Then  he  called  upon  Sir  William  Denham  to  bear  wit- 
ness to  his  character,  and  Sir  William,  having  described 
him  as  the  last  man  on  earth  to  meddle  with  plots  or  poli- 
tics, and  one  of  the  King's  most  loyal  subjects,  made  way 
for  his  son,  who  confirmed  his  testimony.  It  was  a  lame 
defence,  and  a  poor  show  of  witnesses,  yet  better  than 
nothing. 

"What!  no  more  witnesses?"  shouted  Jeffreys,  in 
mocking  tones. 

"  No,  my  lord,"  said  Hugo,  composedly. 

"Then  address  yourself  to  the  jury,  and  don't  waste 
time, "  said  the  Lord  Chief  Justice.  Nothing  irritated  him 
so  much  as  quiet  composure.  "I  can  tell  you  we've 
weightier  matters  in  hand  this  day  than  listening  to  the 
vain  prattle  of  such  lads  as  you.  Speak  on,  and  keep  to 
the  point." 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Hugo,  his  mellow  voice  contrast- 
ing oddly  with  Jeffreys'  hoarse  roar,  "  perchance  you  will 
not  deem  five  minutes  over  long  for  one  who  is  pleading 
against  lifelong  imprisonment.  I  have  been  denied  the 
aid  of  counsel,  denied  any  legal  aid  whatever,  and  am 
therefore  at  great  disadvantage.  However,  I  trust  you 
will  hold  with  the  poet— 

•*  For  lawyers  and  their  pleading, 
They  esteem  it  not  a  straw ; 
They  think  that  honest  meaning 
Is  of  itself  a  law." 

It  hath  been  shown  to  you  that  I  have  ever  been  His 
Majesty's  loyal  subject ;  I  heard  no  word  of  the  plot  till 
the  whole  was  made  public,  nor  have  you  any  right  to 
construe  a  refusal  to  give  evidence  against  a  kinsman  into 
a  mute  acknowledgment  that  the  said  kinsman  is  guilty 
of  treason.  You  may  infer  what  you  please — I  cannot 
help  that — but  I  maintain,  gentlemen — and  I  think  you 
will  agree  with  me — that  the  treason  is  not  proven,  and 
that  you  cannot  legally  find  me  guilty  of  misprision,  see- 
ing that  the  whole  hangeth  upon  the  word  of  but  one  wit- 
ness. My  life  is  in  your  hands.  I  ask  you,  apart  from 


864  *1*  TffB  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

fear  or  fevor,  to  give  me  the  verdict  of  honest  citizens, 
and  to  say  that  this  case  is  not  proven." 

Had  the  jury  gone  away  with  those  unmistakably 
honest  tones  ringing  in  their  ears,  there  might  have  been 
some  faint  hope  for  Hugo,  but  there  followed  Mr.  Ingram's 
powerful  speech  on  behalf  of  the  Crown,  and  then  Jeffreys' 
summing-up  and  charge  to  the  jury.  Accustomed  as  he 
was  to  the  brutality  of  the  Lord  Chief  Justice,  Hugo  was  yet 
amazed  at  the  audacious  wickedness  of  the  man,  his  utter 
disregard  of  all  reason  and  right.  The  jury  retired,  but 
speedily  returned  ;  after  such  a  charge,  they  could  but 
give  one  answer.  Jeffreys,  well  pleased,  stood  up  to  de- 
liver sentence,  and  there  was  a  gleam  of  savage  amuse- 
ment in  his  eye,  for  he  knew  that  he  had  a  surprise  in 
store  for  the  prisoner — this  obstinate  fellow,  out  of 
whom,  nevertheless,  he  still  hoped  to  drag  the  desired 
evidence. 

"  Hugo  Wharncliffe," — the  voice  sought  now  to  be  only 
judicial  and  severe — "you  are  found  guilty  of  the  crime 
of  misprision  of  treason  ;  I  therefore  sentence  you  to  be 
imprisoned  during  the  remainder  of  your  natural  life,  or 
during  His  Majesty's  pleasure  ;  and,  in  consideration  of 
your  extreme  youth,  I  pronounce  that  the  punishment  of 
forfeiture  of  goods  and  chattels,  or  of  profits  arising  upon 
lands  belonging  unto  you,  shall  be  commuted,  and  in  lieu 
thereof  you  shall  be  whipped  by  the  common  hangman 
from  Newgate  to  Tyburn." 

A  murmur  of  surprise  and  astonishment  ran  through  the 
court,  the  barristers  clustered  together  in  little  groups  and 
whispered  questions  as  to  the  legality  of  Jeffreys'  sentence. 
Was  there  any  precedent  for  such  a  proceeding  ?  Could 
such  punishment  be  legally  substituted?  Sir  William  Den- 
ham  shed  tears,  Rupert  swore  under  his  breath,  Randolph 
flushed  slightly,  but  never  took  his  eyes  off  his  brother's 
face.  Beyond  a  doubt,  Hugo  was  startled  ;  as  the  terrible 
doom  was  spoken,  he  looked  up  hastily,  looked  up  incred- 
ulously. Surely  his  ears  must  have  deceived  him? 
Surely  that  punishment  could  never  be  his  ? 

"My  lord,"  he  said,  the  color  surging  up  in  his  paie 
face,  "I  have  not  been  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  me- 
thinks  your  sentence  is  illegal." 

They  were  bold  words  to  speak  to  such  an  one  as  the 
Lord  Chief  Justice.  Every  one  looked  in  amaze  at  the 
prisoner  who  had  dared  to  make  such  a  remonstrance. 


Of  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  265 

Jeffreys  grew  purple  with  wrath. 

"What,  sirrah!"  he  exclaimed,  in  thundering  tones, 
"  are  you  such  an  adept  in  legal  matters  that  you  can  in- 
struct me  ?  Say  another  word,  and  you  shall  stand  in  the 
pillory  into  the  bargain  !  Jailer !  remove  the  prisoner  at 
once." 

Hugo  bowed  to  his  judge,  and  turned  unresistingly  to- 
wards the  jailer,  who  led  him  from  the  court.  He  felt 
stunned,  stupefied ;  afterwards  he  recollected  sorrowfully 
that  he  had  not  even  looked  at  the  Denhams  or  at  Ran- 
dolph, had  not  made  the  most  of  that  brief  glimpse  of  his 
old  haunts.  Unresistingly,  silently,  he  was  led  down 
Westminster  Hall,  past  the  familiar  book-stalls,  through 
the  staring  crowd — the  crowd  which  certainly  was  far 
greater  than  usual.  So  much  greater  that  his  attention 
was  at  length  aroused ;  he  came  to  himself,  looked  round, 
and  wondered.  His  own  case  would  certainly  have  failed 
to  attract  any  special  notice.  For  what,  then,  were  these 
spectators  waiting  ?  and  why  did  they  all  stand  with 
their  faces  turned  to  the  great  door  which  he  was  just  now 
approaching  ?  His  eyes  followed  theirs,  he  looked  forth 
into  the  murky  November  atmosphere,  and  saw  that  Palace- 
Yard  was  full  of  soldiers. 

"  What  is  all  this  for  ?  "  he  asked  of  his  jailer. 

"They  say  Colonel  Sydney  is  to  be  brought  up  for 
trial,"  said  the  man  indifferently. 

Hugo's  heart  beat  wildly.  Sydney's  prophecy  vras, 
then,  coming  true  !  "We  shall  meet  again  in  London." 
Ay,  indeed!  In  London,  but  in  what  a  manner'  The 
one  coming  forth  from  trial,  knowing  his  fearful  doom, 
the  other  going  to  receive  the  same  mockery  of  justice  at 
the  hands  of  the  same  unrighteous  judge. 

But  yet  he  should  see  his  friend  and  teacher  once  more, 
and  long  months  of  suffering  and  confinement  had  made 
Hugo  thankful  for  small  mercies.  He  should  see  him 
once  again,  should  meet  him  as  he  had  foretold  at  Pens- 
hurst.  And  now  they  had  almost  reached  the  great  door- 
way, and  the  tramp  of  the  soldiers  overpowered  the  con- 
fused babel  of  voices  in  the  hall.  Still  Hugo's  jailer  led 
him  on,  hoping  to  get  out  of  the  building  before  the  others 
entered  it.  But  at  the  very  threshold  his  aim  was  frus- 
trated. Gripping  his  prisoner  fast  with  one  hand,  he  bade 
him  wait  till  the  incoming  stream  had  passed  by  and  had 
made  motion  more  possible.  Hugo,  forgetting  his  doom. 


2 66  /<V  THZ  COLDEN  DA  K£n 

forgetting  all  but  the  thought  of  seeing  Sydney,  breathed 
a  silent  thanksgiving,  and  waited  in  eager  expectation. 
Soldiers  in  bright  uniforms  passed  by  him,  sweeping  back 
the  spectators  ruthlessly,  but  taking  no  heed  of  the  jailer 
and  prisoner  in  the  doorway, — his  very  misery  was,  in 
this  instance  a  gain.  No  one  feared  a  rescue  from  him, 
no  one  cared  for  that  one  insignificant  prisoner,  with  his 
handcuffs  and  his  attendant  jailer. 

He  just  stood  against  the  old  stone  mouldings  of  the 
doorway,  and  the  strong  guard  of  soldiers  passed  on, 
and  at  length,  looking  out  into  the  Palace  Yard,  Hugo 
could  discern  in  the  midst  of  them  the  dark,  plumed  hat 
which  must  belong  to  his  friend.  Slowly,  steadily  the 
procession  moved  forward.  Sydney  drew  nearer.  Hugo 
could  see  his  face  now ;  he  looked  older ;  there  were  deep 
lines  in  his  forehead  and  around  his  mouth,  his  cheeks 
were  hollow,  and  although  he  carried  his  head  high,  and 
bore  his  usual  aspect  of  stern  dignity,  Hugo  could  see  that 
he  must  have  suffered  much  from  the  prison  life,  for  all 
his  air  of  health  and  strength  was  gone,  and  he  evidently 
walked  with  an  effort.  Would  he  see  him  ?  Would  he 
look  up  ?  That  was  now  the  question  which  occupied  all 
Hugo's  thoughts.  That  terrible  business-like  tramp  of 
soldiers'  feet  went  on  in  maddening  monotony.  His 
friend  drew  nearer  and  nearer.  Would  he  not  give  one 
glance  in  his  direction. 

Ah,  yes  !  at  length  his  earnest  gaze  attracted  the  Re- 
publican's notice.  He  looked  up  just  before  reaching  the 
threshold,  and  their  eyes  met.  Surprise,  pleasure,  regret, 
sympathy,  encouragement,  all  blent  together  in  that  one 
long  look,  which  was  all  that  the  master  could  give  his 
pupil. 

"God  bless  you,  dear  lad,"  he  said,  and  looked  him 
through  and  through,  looked  at  him  long  and  lingeringly, 
as  those  look  who  are  being  borne  away  to  some  foreign 
land  and  bid  a  last  farewell  to  the  friends  who  stay  be- 
hind. 

And  Hugo's  gray  eyes  lit  up  with  eager  love,  and  the 
memory  of  his  doom  passed  from  him  alv^gether  as  he 
repeated  the  words  of  Sydney's  motto,  Sanclus  amor 
patrtce  dat  animum. 

Sydney  heard  the  words,  turned  back  once  more,  and 
smiled,  a  smile  which  Hugo  could  always  recall,  a  smile 
which  lit  up  the  stern,  rugged  face,  and  made  it  beautiful 


Of  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  267 

as  a  true  and  noble  passion  has  power  to  do,  be  the  feat- 
ures what  they  may. 

Then  the  line  of  soldiers  closed  in  around  the  prisoner, 
and  soon  all  that  Hugo  could  see  was  the  broad-brimmed 
felt  hat  and  the  brown  periwig,  the  one  dark  spot  amid 
the  bright  uniforms  and  flashing  bayonets. 

"Now,  sir,"  said  the  jailer,  giving  his  arm  a  little  shake 
to  arouse  him. 

He  glanced  back  once  more, — caught  a  last  vision  of 
the  old  hall,  with  its  dark  vaulted  roof,  its  crowd  of  spec- 
tators, its  bright  line  of  infantry,  and  its  patriot  prisoner, 
then  turned  and  followed  his  guide  into  the  murky 
November  air  without 


CHAPTER  XXVIIf 

TEMPTATION. 

Virtue  may  be  assailed,  but  never  hurt ; 
Surprised  oy  unjust  force,  but  not  enthralled; 
Yea,  even  that  which  mischief  meant  most  harm 
Shall  in  the  happy  tidal  prove  mosf  ^ory : 
But  evil  on  itself  shall  back  recoil 

MILTON. 

HUGO'S  trial  had  taken  place  on  the  yth  of  November,  and 
the  time  passed  on,  and  though  each  day  he  asked  Scroop 
when  his  sentence  was  to  be  put  into  execution,  the 
jailer  could  never  give  him  any  definite  reply.  The  un- 
certainty was  terrible.  He  hoped  much  that  now  the 
trial  was  over  the  Denhams  would  have  been  allowed  to 
visit  him,  but  though  they  had  applied  for  leave,  Scroop 
told  him  that  they  had  been  peremptorily  refused.  He 
was  deserted  of  all  men,  save  Mr.  Ambrose  Philips, 
who  still  visited  him  with  great  assiduity  and  patience, 
dilating  much  on  the  horrors  of  the  punishment  which 
awaited  him,  and  offering  free  pardon,  if  only  he  would 
appear  at  Colonel  Sydney's  trial. 

It  appeared  that  on  the  yth  of  November  Sydney  had 
been  brought  up  for  trial  and,  after  a  stormy  scene  with 
the  Lord  Chief  Justice,  had  been  given  a  fortnight  in 
which  to  prepare  his  defence,  being  denied,  however  the 


868  AV  THE  GOLDEN  DA  K£ 

aid  of  counsel,  or  even  a  copy  of  the  indictment  This 
was  all  Hugo  could  learn,  and  he  passed  a  hard  fortnight 
Early  on  the  morning  of  the  2oth  he  was  summoned  from 
his  crowded  ward  ;  was  it  to  go  out  to  his  fate,  he  won- 
dered? but  Scroop  reassured  him  and  spoke  cheering 
words  to  him  as  they  walked  along  the  stone  corridors. 

"Keep  up  your  heart,  sir,"  he  said  with  rough  kind- 
ness. "  There  is  a  chance  for  you  yet" 

He  then  took  his  charge  into  a  private  cell,  bidding  him 
wash  and  change  his  clothes,  and  to  make  all  speed 
about  it 

Hugo,  greatly  wondering,  did  as  he  was  told,  and  then 
followed  the  jailer  to  the  main  entrance,  where  three 
officers  in  plain  clothes  awaited  them.  Scroop  opened 
the  heavy  iron-studded  door,  and  fresh  air  and  golden  sun- 
shine found  their  way  into  the  gloomy  jail  and  to  the 
prisoner,  who  looked  forth  with  eager  eyes.  He  was 
hurried  into  a  hackney  coach  which  stood  without,  the 
officers  got  in  with  him;  the  door  was  shut,  and  he  was 
driven  off,  whither  he  could  only  conjecture,  since  the 
blinds  were  down,  and  the  officers  would  give  no  infor- 
mation whatever.  Was  it  perhaps  the  day  of  Sydney's 
trial?  Was  he  to  betaken  to  Westminster  Hall  and  in- 
duced to  give  evidence  ?  If  so,  he  resolved  to  take  refuge 
in  silence,  he  would  not  risk  being  confused  by  a  perplex- 
ing string  of  questions.  At  length  the  coach  stopped,  he 
was  hurried  out  of  it  and  taken  so  speedily  into  an  open 
doorway,  that  he  had  no  time  to  make  out  what  the  place 
was,  only  he  felt  sure  it  was  not  Westminster.  He  was 
taken  into  a  small  wainscotted  room,  where  a  pleasant- 
looking,  middle-aged  man  sat  at  a  table  writing ;  the 
officers  withdrew  and  left  them  alone  together. 

"You  will  wonder  who  I  am,"  said  the  stranger,  mo- 
tioning him  to  sit  down,  "I  am  Dr.  Pratt,  and  I  have 
been  commanded  to  examine  into  the  state  of  your  health, 
Mr.  Wharncliffe." 

Hugo,  who  had  struggled  through  his  illness  without 
any  medical  aid,  submitted  to  a  thorough  examination, 
marvelling  a  little  what  was  the  meaning  of  it  all  After 
a  while  it  began  to  dawn  upon  him. 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  are  very  much  out  of  health  ?  " 
said  the  doctor. 

Hugo  replied  that  he  was  quite  a\vare  of  the  fact 

"  I  fear  there  is  one  thing,  however,  of  which  you  arc 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  KS.  269 

not  aware,"  said  the  doctor,  kindly.  "They  tell  me  you 
are  to-morrow  to  be  whipped  from  Newgate  to  Tyburn. 
Now,  in  your  present  state  of  health  such  a  punishment 
as  that  will  cost  you  your  life. " 

"To-morrow,"  repeated  Hugo.     "  Will  it  be  to-morrow  ?  " 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  curiously  and  with  some  com- 
passion. 

"Ay,  so  they  tell  me.  But  you  do  not  hear  what  is  of 
far  more  importance — I  assure  you  that  such  a  punish- 
ment will  cost  you  your  life. " 

"Yes,  sir,  I  hear  plainly  enough,"  said  Hugo,  thought- 
fully. "  And,  did  life  mean  to  you  merely  eternal  New- 
gate, methinks  you  might  look  on  death  with  other 
eyes. " 

The  doctor  rose  hastily  and  took  two  or  three  turns  up 
and  down  the  room  before  again  speaking. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  length,  "I  am  sorry  for  you,  sir;  I 
have  done  what  they  bade  me  do  and  have  given  you 
fair  warning.  Tis  not  for  me  to  argue  with  you,  others 
will  do  that." 

"Ay,"  said  Hugo,  smiling  a  little,  "there  is  no  lack  of 
arguers.  To  listen  to  them  is  the  employment  of  my 
life,  and  I  thank  you,  sir,  for  sparing  your  breath  and  my 
patience." 

He  relapsed  into  silence  and  deep  thought.  It  was  to 
be  to-morrow,  then,  to-morrow  I 

The  doctor  regarded  him  closely  for  a  minute ;  then 
with  a  sigh  and  shake  of  the  head,  opened  the  door  and 
summoned  the  officers. 

In  silence  they  led  the  prisoner  up  a  winding  staircase, 
dark  and  narrow,  which  opened  into^a  large  and  hand- 
somely furnished  bedroom ;  here  an  usher  met  them, 
and  led  them  on  through  corridors  and  empty  rooms  to 
the  door  of  an  apartment  which  somehow  had  to  Hugo  a 
familiar  air.  When  it  was  opened  the  first  thing  which 
met  his  gaze  was  the  Noli  me  Tangere  of  Hans  Holbein. 
He  knew  then  that  he  was  at  Whitehall,  and  had  been 
admitted  by  the  private  staircase,  of  which  he  had  heard 
rumors  in  the  old  times.  He  breathed  a  little  faster  as 
the  usher  went  on  before  to  announce  them,  then  return- 
ing bade  them  come  in.  How  strangely  different  it  was 
from  that  evening  long  ago,  when  he  had  last  entered 
this  room  in  company  with  the  little  Duchess  of  Grafton. 
Involuntarily  he  sighed,  Life  had  locked  so  very  bright 


270  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

to  him  that  evening.  Coming  to  himself,  he  noticed  that 
his  companions  were  bowing  low.  He  too  bowed  me- 
chanically, and  then  looking  up  saw  that  the  King  was 
sitting  at  a  table  amusing  himself  by  dissecting  a  little 
Dutch  clock.  He  looked  much  older  than  when  Hugo 
had  last  seen  him,  his  face  had  lost  much  of  its  easy 
good-nature,  he  seemed  gloomy  and  ill,  while  there  was 
an  unhealthy  yellowish  tinge  in  the  whites  of  his  eyes, 
and  the  lines  and  wrinkles  in  his  face  were  very  ap- 
parent. 

"  I  would  speak  with  the  prisoner  alone,"  he  said,  turn- 
ing to  the  chief  officer.  "  Hath  he  been  searched  ?  " 

The  officer  with  many  apologies,  replied  in  the  nega- 
tive. 

"Then  let  it  be  done,"  said  Charles,  querulously.  "I 
marvel  that  in  these  days  of  treachery  you  bring  a  man 
from  jail  into  my  presence  with  so  little  precaution." 

The  officer  was  about  to  lead  Hugo  from  the  room, 
when  something  in  the  prisoner's  face  made  the  King  in- 
terfere. 

"  Nay,  hold,"  he  exclaimed.  "We  do  but  waste  time, 
for  now  I  think  of  it,  this  gentleman  speaks  the  truth 
even  to  his  liege  lord.  Have  you  aught  concealed  about 
you,  Mr.  Wharncliffe  ? 

Hugo  opened  his  doublet,  and  produced  a  book,  a  tiny 
parcel,  and  a  letter.  The  officer  handed  them  to  the 
King  at  his  request,  and  then  withdrew,  leaving  Charles 
alone  with  the  prisoner.  The  book  was  Joyce's  St.  John  ; 
the  King  merely  glanced  at  it,  and  to  Hugo's  relief,  did 
not  read  the  words  written  within.  The  parcel  he  un- 
folded ;  it  contained  a  lady's  handkerchief  embroidered 
in  one  corner  with  a  J.  At  sight  of  this  he  smiled  broadly, 
and  looked  once  more  the  good-natured  monarch  of 
former  times. 

"Ah!  Mr.  Wharncliffe,"  he  said  with  a  laugh.  '"One 
touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin.'  Kings  or 
prisoners,  we  are  after  all  alike  in  this  particular." 

Hugo  made  no  reply,  and  managed  to  school  his  face 
into  courteous  passiveness.  Inwardly  he  raged,  and 
only  longed  to  snatch  Joyce's  handkerchief  from  the 
King's  hands. 

Charles  took  up  the  letter.  It  was  the  one  which 
Sydney  had  sent  by  Betterton,  and  the  King's  face  grew 
dark  as  he  read  it  The  perusal  took  him  some  time,  and 


THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 


271 


Hugo  fell  into  a  reverie.  At  another  time  the  thought  of 
a  private  interview  with  the  King  might  have  awed  him 
a  little,  but  kings  sank  into  insignificance  before  the  news 
which  had  just  been  given  him.  He  was  to  suffer  to- 
morrow— and  to  die.  He  had  much  to  settle,  much  to 
think  over,  and  but  a  few  hours  left  him. 

The  King  folded  the  letter,  and  looked  across  at  the 
silent  figure  which  stood  opposite  to  him,  taking  in  with  his 
keen  eyes  every  smallest  detail,  the  clothes  which  seemed 
to  hang  loosely  upon  their  wearer,  the  quiet  pensive  face, 
with  its  suggestion  of  latent  power,  the  strange  calmness 
of  the  expression  both  of  the  mouth  and  eyes. 

It  was  a  bitter  November  day  ;  Hugo  involuntarily 
glanced  towards  the  fire,  and  the  glance  seemed  to  make 
an  opening  for  an  interview  which  to  tell  the  truth,  was 
sufficiently  embarrassing  to  the  King. 

"You  look  cold,"  he  said,  not  unkindly.  "Do  they 
not  give  you  fires  in  Newgate  ?  " 

"Ay,  my  liege,"  said  Hugo,  smiling  a  little.  "But 
there  are  many  of  us,  and  the  ward  is  large,  therefore  it 
is  not  often  that  one  can  come  nigh  it." 

Never  was  there  a  less  formal  monarch  than  Charles  ; 
he  motioned  to  the  prisoner  to  sit  down  beside  the  hearth, 
and,  leaving  tne  table  with  the  Dutch  clock,  he  took  a 
seat  opposite  him. 

"You  have  seen  the  leech,  they  tell  me,"  he  resumed 
after  a  moment's  pause.  "  What  did  he  tell  you  ? " 

"That  I  have  probably  but  one  more  day  in  this  world, 
sire!  "  said  Hugo,  warming  his  hands  at  the  fire. 

"Ton  my  soul,  you  seem  to  take  it  quietly  enow," 
said  the  King.  "Hath  life  no  charms  for  one  of  your 
years  ?  " 

"It  hath  many  charms,  sire,  while  I  sit  here,"  said 
Hugo,  glancing  round  the  beautiful  room.  "But  I  have 
lived  through  months  of  misery,  and  in  Newgate  I  find  no 
charms,  but  hunger  and  thirst,  cold  and  sickness,  vile 
companions  and  days  of  wretchedness." 

The  King  looked  at  him  with  uneasy  compassion. 

"Can  you  imagine  what  made  me  command  your  pres- 
ence this  day  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Hitherto  there  hath  been  but  one  end  sought  in  every 
interview,  my  liege,  therefore  I  presume  that  your  Majesty 
also  hath  the  same  in  view." 

' '  Ay,  they  told  me  you  were  stubborn  as  a  mule ;  there- 


e;2  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

fore," — and  Charles  smiled  the  peculiarly  charming  Stuart 
smile  which  had  won  so  many  hearts — "  therefore  I  sent 
for  you.  Come,  Mr.  Wharn  cliff e,  I  believe  you  to  be  my 
loyal  subject  in  your  heart  of  hearts  ;  you  have  but  been 
led  astray  by  evil  men.  I  will  overlook  all  the  past,  so 
only  you  consent  to  give  evidence  against  Colonel  Sydney. 
You  have  withstood  Ambrose  Philips,  but  I  think  you  will 
scarcely  withstand  your  Sovereign  when  he  asks  you  to  do 
this  as  a  personal  favor.  Believe  me,  it  is  but  to  few 
men  that  I  could  bring  myself  to  make  such  a  request." 

Again  that  fascinating  smile,  that  winning  tone  of  voice. 
Hugo's  heart  beat  fast,  and  the  color  rose  in  his  pale 
face. 

"Sire,  I  crave  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "but  it  is  impos- 
sible— altogether  impossible." 

"You  do  not  realize  the  difference  it  will  make,"  said 
the  King,  quietly.  "Consent,  and  you  are  free  this  instant. 
Consent,  and  I  will  give  you  a  post  about  my  person  ; 
and  you  shall  have  all  that  heart  can  wish.  On  the  other 
hand  persevere  in  your  refusal,  and  on  the  morrow  you 
will  suffer  the  most  horrible  and  degrading  of  punish- 
ments, intolerable  to  one  of  your  birth  and  breeding,  and 
in  this  worthless,  miserable  way  you  will  end  your  life. 
Say,  do  you  not  shrink  from  this  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  Hugo; — nothing  but  that  monosyllable, — 
no  courteous  title,  no  comment  on  the  King's  speech,  but 
yet  in  the  one  word  a  whole  world  of  expression, — all  the 
concentrated  pain  of  those  weary  months,  all  the  terrible 
apprehension,  all  the  shrinking  sensitiveness,  all  the  loath- 
Ing  of  the  shame  and  publicity,  all  the  natural  clinging  to 
life  and  liberty. 

The  King  was  touched  ;  there  was  a  painful  silence. 

"Do  you  not  see,"  he  said,  after  a  time,  in  his  persua- 
sive voice — "do  you  not  see  how  great  is  the  stake  you 
hold?  Here  is  a  chance  offered  you  of  changing  the 
history  of  your  country. " 

Hugo  looked  up,  the  moment's  agony  was  passed,  there 
was  a  light  in  his  sad  eyes. 

"  But  already  that  chance  is  mine,  my  liege.  What  if 
I  do  suffer  to-morrow — what  if  I  die?  It  is  naught,  for 
Colonel  Sydney  will  be  free." 

'*  You  are  greatly  mistaken,"  said  Charles,  his  face  dark- 
ening. "Colonel  Sydney  must  die.  Naught  can  alter 
that  The  decree  has  gone  forth,  and  it  must  be." 


iN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  KS  373 

"  But  there  is  but  my  Lord  Howard  to  witness  against 
him,"  said  Hugo.  "He  cannot  be  executed,  my  liege,  on 
the  word  of  one  witness — and  such  a  witness  !  " 

"  I  know  of  no  cannots  in  such  a  case,"  said  the  King, 
coldly.  "  There  were  plenty  of  cannots  at  the  trial  of  our 
Blessed  Martyr,  yet  in  the  end  his  death  was  compassed." 

"Ah  !  my  liege,  have  you  forgotten  that  'twas  Colonel 
Sydney  who  nobly  refused  to  have  aught  to  do  with  that 
sentence?  Is  this  your  reward  for  his  honesty?  Will 
you  be  less  merciful  to  him,  less  generous  ?  Nay,  'tis  no 
question  of  generosity,  but  of  simple  justice,  for  he  is  not 
guilty.  Oh  !  my  liege,  my  liege,  you  cannot  think  that 
such  a  man  as  Sydney  would  stoop  to  such  meanness, — 
would  attack  any  man  at  a  disadvantage  !  You  cannot 
think  that  such  a  one  would  league  himself  with  mere 
desperadoes  like  the  Rye-House  men  !  " 

"  I  did  not  send  for  you  to  plead  for  Colonel  Sydney," 
said  the  King  gloomily.  "  I  tell  you  he  must  die ;  say  no 
more." 

There  was  that  in  his  tone  which  conveyed  a  terrible 
conviction  to  Hugo's  heart  He  could  not  conceal  his 
anguish.  For  all  these  weary  months  had  been  rendered 
bearable  to  him  by  the  thought  that  he  was  suffering  for 
his  friend,  buying  his  freedom.  In  fact,  it  was  well 
known  that  the  evidence  against  Sydney  was  so  extremely 
shaky  that  almost  everybody  had  deemed  it  probable  that 
he  would  merely  lie  in  the  Tower  for  a  time  and  then 
would  be  released  without  trial,  or,  if  brought  to  trial, 
would  certainly  escape  with  a  fine  or  imprisonment 
Now  for  the  first  time  the  truth  broke  upon  Hugo ;  he 
could  do  nothing  for  his  friend.  Regardless  of  the  King's 
presence,  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

' '  I  have  spent  my  strength  in  vain  !  "  he  groaned. 

"  That  is  precisely  what  we  have  been  urging  upon 
you  all  these  months,  Mr.  Wharncliffe, "  said  the  King 
more  cordially.  "  You  have  indeed  spent  your  strength 
in  vain,  do  not  into  the  bargain  throw  away  your  life ; 
give  me  your  word  that  instead  of  going  forth  to  meet 
that  insufferable  punishment  to-morrow,  you  will  repair 
to  Westminster  to  Colonel  Sydney's  trial,  and  you  are  free 
from  this  moment.  Do  you  not  see  what  a  great  oppor- 
tunity we  give  you  ?  In  any  case  Colonel  Sydney  will 
die,  but,  by  the  help  of  your  evidence,  you  may,  as  we 
said  before,  alter  the  history  of  this  land,  you  may  do  us 
18 


274  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

the  greatest  possible  service.  Say,  lad,  will  you  refuse 
me?" 

"  Your  Majesty  asks  me  to  bear  false  witness  against  a 
friend,"  said  Hugo.  "  How  can  I  help  but  refuse  ?  " 

"Could  you  save  him  by  silence,  that  were  another 
matter,"  said  Charles.  "But  you  cannot  do  so,  his  fate 
is  fixed.  Therefore,  for  your  own  sake  and  for  ours  also, 
I  beg  you  to  think  of  what  liberty  means.  Methinks  you 
are  like  to  break  the  heart  of  this  fair  Juliet,  or  whatever 
her  name  be,  who  owns  this  handkerchief,  an  you  choose 
death  and  dishonor." 

Hugo's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  a  vision  of  Joyce  rose 
before  him.  The  King  made  haste  to  follow  up  his  ad- 
vantage. 

"Only  do  this,  Mr.  Wharncliffe,  and  you  shall  wed  this 
fair  damsel  and  live  in  peace  and  honor.  I  give  you  my 
word  that  nothing  shall  come  betwixt  you." 

"My  liege,"  said  Hugo,  recovering  himself.  "Did  I 
do  this,  I  should  not  be  fit  to  have  her.  I  respectfully 
refuse  your  Majesty's  request." 

With  a  frown  and  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  Charles 
crossed  the  room,  and,  opening  the  door  which  led  into 
the  adjoining  library,  spoke  a  few  words  to  some  one 
within.  Hugo  did  not  hear  them,  he  was  lost  in  thoughts 
of  Joyce.  He  came  to  himself  as  the  King  returned,  and 
the  words  fell  upon  his  ears,  "Stubborn  as  a  mule,  and  if 
you  read  this  letter  you  may  perchance  gather  the  reason." 

Thereupon  the  King  took  up  Sydney's  letter  and  held  it 
out  to  some  one  who  followed  him.  Hugo  glanced  round, 
and  with  an  irrepressible  exclamation  started  to  his  feet 
for  the  King  had  spoken  to  Randolph. 

The  brothers  greeted  each  other  silently.  Then  Ran- 
dolph read  the  letter  with  darkening  brow. 

'  Tis  this  traitor  who  has  led  him  astray  !  "  he  said  at 
the  close,  and  he  would  have  torn  the  letter  in  pieces  had 
not  Hugo  darted  forward. 

"  Hold  ! "  he  cried  passionately.  "The  letter  is  mine, 
you  shall  not  tear  it. "  Randolph  paused,  and  Hugo  turned 
to  the  King.  "My  liege,  I  showed  it  at  your  request; 
but  it  is  mine,  he  has  no  right  to  it.  Bid  him  restore  it, 
sire,  I  beg  you. " 

"Ay,  give  it  back,  Randolph,"  said  the  King,  carelessly. 
"There,  take  back  all  of  your  treasures,  I  have  no  wish 
to  deprive  you  of  them,  and  you  had  best  take  leave  of 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 


275 


your  brother,  for  you  are  not  like  to  see  him  again,  unless 
he  succeeds  better  than  we  have  done  in  making  you 
hearken  to  reason." 

So  saying,  Charles  picked  up  a  spaniel  which  had  curled 
itself  round  in  his  vacant  chair,  and  strolled  into  the 
library,  fondling  the  dog's  long  ears. 

"  I  have  one  more  chance  to  offer  you,"  said  Randolph, 
sternly.  "You  have  ungraciously  refused  the  King's 
request  but  you  may  yet  save  yourself  by  witnessing 
against  Colonel  Wharncliffe. " 

Hugo  made  a  gesture  of  entreaty. 

"For  God's  sake,  begin  not  that  again.  Have  I  not 
said  I  will  never  do  it  ?  Have  I  not  sworn  it  ? " 

"Yet  all  things  are  changed  since  your  trial,"  said 
Randolph,  much  more  gently.  "  Hugo,  an  you  love  me, 
save  me  from  this  misery,  let  me  not  have  this  disgrace 
thrust  on  to  me  !  Save  me  from  the  pain  and  ignominy 
of  having  brother  of  mine  whipped  from  N'wgate  to 
Tyburn  like  a  common  criminal." 

"That  lay  in  your  power,  but  scarce  in  mine, "said 
Hugo,  hoarsely. 

It  was  far  harder  to  refuse  Randolph  than  to  refuse  the 
King. 

"  It  is  in  your  power  to  be  free  to-morrow,  by  only 
promising  to  reveal  what  you  know,"  said  Randolph  ; 
and  there  was  such  real  anxiety,  such  real  solicitude  in 
his  face,  that  Hugo  was  obliged  to  take  a  turn  up  and  down 
the  room  before  he  could  find  voice  to  answer  him. 

"  I  will  reveal  nothing,"  he  said  at  length.  "  I  ought 
to  have  known  nothing." 

There  was  something  in  his  manner  which  finally  con- 
vinced Randolph  of  the  hopelessness  of  his  errand.  His 
regret  and  anxiety  and  baffled  hope  turned  to  hot  anger. 

"You  are  a  fool!  a  traitor!"  he  thundered.  "Your 
blood  be  on  your  own  head.  Think  not  to  lay  the  blame 
on  me,  an  they  whip  you  into  a  ghost.  You  are  a  traitor 
to  your  King,  to  your  country,  and  to  me !  I  disown 
you !  " 

With  a  gesture  as  if  this  were  more  than  he  could  bear, 
Hugo  turned  away,  Randolph,  with  blazing  eyes,  laid 
a  strong  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  forced  him  to  turn 
round. 

"For  the  last  time,"  he  said,  speaking  through  his  teeth, 
in  a  voice  of  repressed  passion,  "  Will  you  shield  this  traitof 


27  6  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

no  longer?  Will  you  reveal  what  you  know  of  Colonel 
Wharncliffe  ?  Will  you  confess  what  was  in  the  papers  ?  " 

The  last  time  they  had  touched  each  other  it  had  been 
in  the  dungeon.  Some  recollection  of  this  came  to  both. 
Randolph  would  not  suffer  his  face  to  move  a  muscle 
though  he  was  conscious  of  a  sharp  stab  of  pain,  but 
Hugo's  lips  began  to  quiver. 

"I  will  not, — I  cannot !"  he  said  in  a  choked  voice. 
"  Death  itself,  ay,  and  even  your  displeasure,  were  better 
than  such — villainy  !  " 

"To  the  death  you  deserve,  then,"  said  Randolph,  re- 
moving his  hand.  "  And  may  the  devil  take  your  soul !  " 

He  turned  to  go,  but  before  he  had  reached  the  door 
Hugo  had  sprung  forward  in  an  agony,  and  clutched  at 
his  arm. 

"Randolph!  Randolph!"  he  cried;  and  there  was 
such  anguish  in  his  voice  that,  in  the  adjacent  room,  the 
King  began  to  hum  a  love-song  to  himself  to  drown  the 
sound.  "  Go  not  like  that  !  Go  not  with  such  words  !  I 
shall  never  see  you  again  !  For  God's  sake,  bid  me  fare- 
well !  " 

"Unhand  me!"  said  Randolph,  roughly.  Then,  as 
Hugo  still  retained  his  hold  he  shook  himself  free  with  a 
volley  of  oaths.  "  Have  I  not  disowned  you,  and  cursed 
you  ?  What  more  would  you  have  ?  Go  to  your  fate, 
you  are  naught  to  me  !  " 

He  strode  out  of  the  room,  and  there  was  silence,  until 
in  a  few  minutes  the  King  strolled  back  again,  still  fond- 
ling the  little  spaniel.  Hugo  had  thrown  himself  into  a 
chair,  with  his  arms  stretched  across  the  table,  and  his 
face  hidden.  The  King  could  hear  his  hard  breathing  ; 
he  watched  him  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"I  have  tried  to  save  you,'"  he  said  at  length,  regret- 
fully. "  Tis  your  own  doing — you  will  not  be  saved." 

Hugo  hastily  raised  himself.  His  face  was  white  and 
haggard  ;  but  the  King's  words  seemed  to  awaken  in 
his  mind  a  fresh  train  of  thoughts,  and  for  the  time  to 
divert  him  from  the  recollection  of  Randolph's  cruelty. 

"You  would  save  me  the  unworthy,  my  liege,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  You  would  fain  show  mercy  to  me^— then  why 
not  to  one  who  deserves  infinitely  more  at  your  hands.  I 
deemed  Colonel  Sydney's  fate  rested  with  me,  but  I  was 
cruelly  deceived.  His  fate  rests  with  your  Majesty.  You 
tell  me  that  I  may  change  the  course  of  history,  but  oh, 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  277 

sire  !  think  how  great  a  change  might  be  effected  by  your 
Majesty.  Think  how  by  one  just  and  generous  deed  your 
Majesty  might  endear  yourself  to  future  generations.  My 
God  !  to  think  what  power  rests  with  one  man  !  " 

There  was  something  so  heartfelt  in  the  last  ejaculation 
that  Charles  was  not  offended  by  it,  even  though  he  felt 
reproached  by  the  prisoner's  searching  look  of  mingled 
wonder  and  despair.  That  moment  did  for  Hugo  what 
all  Sydney's  teaching  had  failed  to  do, — it  made  him  a  true 
Republican.  Pie  glanced  round  the  beautiful  room,  with 
its  tapestried  walls,  its  fine  pictures,  its  curious  clocks  and 
pendules,  its  silken  curtains  and  rich  carvings  ;  he  looked 
long  at  the  hard-featured  man  in  black  velvet  doublet  and 
brown  periwig,  who  still  idly  toyed  with  his  little  dog, 
He  looked  at  the  sensual  eyes,  which  glanced  now  at  him, 
now  at  the  spaniel ;  he  looked  at  the  voluptuous  lips,  about 
which  there  lurked  now  a  faint  smile,  for  to  Charles  there 
was  always  something  laughable  in  earnestness. 

"I  see  you  deem  the  power  ill-placed,"  said  the  King, 
good-humoredly.  "Well,  Mr.  Wharncliffe,  I  need  detain 
you  no  longer,  for  we  do  but  waste  time,  and  you  will  not 
serve  my  purpose." 

With  that  he  held  out  his  hand  graciously,  intending 
to  show  a  very  unusual  mark  of  confidence  and  condescen- 
sion in  permitting  the  prisoner  to  kiss  it.  But  to  his  surprise 
Hugo  drew  back. 

"Pardon  me,  sire,"  he  said,  bowing,  and  coloring 
crimson  with  the  effort  of  uttering  such  words.  "There 
is  blood  upon  it." 

The  King  swore  a  deep  oath,  and  his  dark  face  turned 
almost  purple  for  a  minute.  But  recovering  his  self-pos- 
session he  gave  a  careless  laugh. 

"You  are  a  true  disciple  of  Algernon  Sydney,"  he  said, 
marvelling  a  little  that  one  of  so  sensitive  a  temperament 
should  have  adopted  such  principles,  or  have  been  cap- 
able of  showing  himself  so  disagreeably  consistent  with 
them.  "  I  pardon  your  bluntness,  however,  for  though 
you  are  no  courtier,  Mr.  Wharncliffe,  I  believe  you  to  be 
an  honest  man  misled  by  those  who  should  have  known 
better.  Remember  that  I  tried  to  save  you." 

With  that  the  officers  were  summoned,  and  Hugo,  bow- 
ing low,  looked  his  last  at  the  King,  and  was  led  from  the 
room. 


/A*  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

HUGO'S   LAST   DAY. 

Love  is  a  spirit  high  presuming, 
That  falleth  oft  ere  he  sit  fast ; 
Care  is  a  sorrow  long  consuming, 
Which  yet  doth  kill  the  heart  at  last ; 
Death  is  a  wrong  to  life  and  love, 
And  I  the  pains  of  all  must  prove. 

SIR  PHILIP  SYDNEY. 

"  SCROOP,"  said  Hugo,  as  the  jailer  led  him  back  to  his 
ward,  "it  is  all  up  with  me,  and  to-morrow  you'll  be 
troubled  by  me  no  longer.  Say,  will  you  do  me  one  favor 
ere  we  part" 

The  jailer,  to  his  secret  indignation,  felt  a  curious 
moisture  about  his  eyes. 

"  Let's  hear  first  what  it  may  be,"  he  said  gruffly. 

"Tis  no  great  matter,"  said  Hugo.  "An  ink-horn,  a 
goose-quill,  three  sheets  of  letter  paper,  and  to-night  your 
promise  to  convey  the  budget  to  Sir  William  Denham's 
house  in  Norfolk  Street. " 

The  jailer  promised  to  grant  him  this  favor,  and,  indeed, 
short  of  allowing  him  to  escape,  he  would  have  done 
almost  anything  for  him,  for  over  his  rough  and  semi- 
brutalized  nature  Hugo  had  acquired  a  most  strange 
influence. 

The  contrast  between  Whitehall  and  the  common- 
debtor's  ward  struck  upon  Hugo  sharply  as  once  more  he 
found  himself  in  his  prison  quarters.  The  ward  was  bit- 
terly cold,  though  a  fire  burnt  in  the  grate,  over  which 
several  of  the  prisoners  were  making  preparations  for  din- 
ner, cooking  such  scraps  of  meat  or  vegetables  as  they 
had  been  able  to  secure,  either  with  their  own  money 
or  by  the  charity  of  the  London  shopkeepers.  These  were 
in  the  habit  of  placing  stale  bread,  and  such  bones  and 
scrapings  as  they  could  spare  in  baskets  provided  for  that 
purpose  with  an  appeal  for  "  Some  bread  and  meat  for 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  279 

the  poor  prisoners  in  Newgate  !  For  the  Lord's  sake  pity 
the  poor ! " 

Those  who  were  not  cooking  were  smoking,  drinking, 
singing,  dicing,  or  quarrelling,  while  above  the  confused 
uproar  there  rose  an  unusual  sound — the  sound  of  a  child's 
voice,  crying  bitterly.  Hugo,  shaking  himself  free  from 
the  importunate  questioners  who  would  fain  have  learnt 
where  he  had  been  to,  made  his  way  to  that  part  of  the 
ward  whence  the  crying  came.  A  pitiful  little  group  met 
his  gaze  as  he  drew  near.  Upon  the  floor  sat  a  delicate- 
looking  woman,  trying  to  comfort  the  sobbing  child  in  her 
arms  ;  beside  her,  playing  unconcernedly  with  an  apple, 
was  a  little  fellow  of  three  years  old,  his  bright  face  quite 
free  from  care  or  anxiety,  and  contrasting  painfully  with 
that  of  the  father  who  stood  close  by,  a  sombre-looking 
puritan  upon  whose  face  there  now  rested  the  shadow  of 
grievous  trouble.  He  was  not  an  attractive-looking  man, 
but  he  seemed  so  miserable,  and  looked  so  out  of  place 
amid  his  surroundings,  that  Hugo  felt  impelled  to  make 
some  sort  of  advance  to  him. 

"  Methinks  you  are  a  new-comer,  sir,"  he  said,  court- 
eously, with  a  vivid  recoiiect;on  of  his  first  day  in  the 
ward,  and  a  longing  to  do  what  he  could  for  this  forlorn 
group. 

"Yes,  sir,  "said  the  Nonconformist,  severely,  "lam  a 
new-comer,  and  I  do  not  desire  to  make  any  acquaintance 
in  this  foul  place." 

Hugo  felt  baffled,  but  would  not  give  in. 

'"Tis  ever  harder  to  fresh  comers,"  he  said,  quietly. 
'%.n  you  have  not  dined,  I  will  go  yonder  and  forage  fof 
ydu,  for  they  serve  strangers  but  roughly." 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply  he  crossed  the  ward,  and 
with  his  own  money  bargained  with  a  prisoner,  who  was 
called  the  caterer,  for  enough  dinner  for  himself  and  the 
strangers,  returning  with  some  very  passable  broth  and 
half  a  loaf. 

"A  scanty  meal,  I  fear,"  he  said,  smiling,  "but  the 
best  I  could  get.  The  children  look  hungry." 

It  was  not  in  the  heart  of  man  to  resist  such  kindness 
The  sad-looking  Nonconformist  relented,  and  was  soon 
dining  with  his  fellow-prisoner. 

"  May  I  ask  your  name,  sir?  "  he  said  at  length,  "I 
looked  not  to  find  such  as  you  in  this  place." 

"  My  name  is  Wharncliffe,  and  I  got  into  trouble  over 


28o  JW  THE  GOLDEN  fiAYS. 

the  Plot  But  this  is  like  to  be  my  last  day  here,"  said 
Hugo,  quietly,  having  nc  mind  to  go  into  details  just 
then. 

"I,  sir,  am  one  Thomas  Delaune,"  said  the  Noncon- 
5ormist;  "my  trial  doth  not  come  on  till  the  thirtieth  of 
this  month,  but  they  would  not  admit  me  to  bail,  there- 
fore I  and  my  wife  and  children  are  forced  to  come  here  ; 
I  cannot  persuade  my  wife  to  leave,  nor  indeed  were  it  fit- 
ting that  she  remained  alone  with  no  protector." 

"Yet  is  this  a  terrible  place  for  her,"  said  Hugo. 

"So  much  the  worse  for  the  Episcopalians  who  force  us 
into  Newgate.  My  sole  offence,  sir,  is  that  I  accepted  the 
invitation  of  one  of  your  Church  of  England  men,  Doctor 
Calamy,  in  his  sermons  entitled  A  Scrupulous  Conscience. 
to  propose  our  doubts  with  respect  to  Church  ceremonies. 
I  accepted  that  invitation,  and  printed  in  reply  A  Plea  for 
Nonconformists,  And  for  printing  that  work  am  I  here  in 
this  foul  place." 

"But  surely  Doctor  Calamy  will  in  that  case  procure 
your  release  ? "  said  Hugo. 

' '  I  know  not,  sir, "  said  Delaune.  "  Of  an  Episcopalian 
I  never  expect  aught. " 

"I  am  one,"  said  Hugo,  smiling  a  little.  "And  now 
methinks  you  must  have  divined  the  fact,  for  you  were 
loth  to  expect  aught  but  ill  from  me  !  " 

Delaune  would  fain  have  con  verted  him  there  and  then, 
but  before  long  Scroop  entered  with  the  writing  materials 
which  Hugo  had  asked  for,  and  excusing  himself  he  retired 
to  his  own  corner  to  write,  as  well  as  he  could  in  the  din 
and  uproar,  his  three  farewell  letters,  one  to  Mary  Den- 
ham,  one  to  Algernon  Sydney,  one  to  Joyce. 

It  was  then  that  he  first  fully  realized  what  the  sentence 
of  death  meant.  They  were  terrible  letters  to  write, — 
terrible  when  he  thought  of  himself,  more  terrible  when 
he  thought  of  those  to  whom  he  was  writing.  It  was 
quite  dusk  in  the  ward  before  he  had  finished — in  fact, 
Scroop  stood  beside  him  waiting  for  the  budget  before  he 
had  made  it  ready  ;  it  had  taken  him  far  longer  than  he 
had  thought,  and  had  cost  him  much.  The  jailer  watched 
him  in  grim  yet  not  unsympathetic  silence. 

"  You  will  bear  it  yourself?  "  asked  Hugo,  sealing  the 
packet  and  handing  it  to  Scroop. 

"What  matters  who  bears  it,  so  as  it  goes?"  said  the 
jailer, " 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  28* 

"It  matters  to  me,"  said  Hugo,  "  because  I  trust  you, 
Scroop. 

"Well,  then,  I  will  bear  it,"  said  the  jailer,  and  with- 
out  another  word  he  left  the  ward. 

Hugo  looked  wistfully  after  the  budget ;  then,  as  the 
door  was  closed  and  locked  behind  the  jailer,  he  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands.  He  had  spoken  boldly  at  White- 
hall, had  thought  of  the  miseries  of  his  life  at  Newgate, 
but  fresh  from  that  last  letter  to  Joyce  a  wild  clinging  to 
life,  a  wild  hope  of  escape,  an  intolerable  longing  for  one 
more  sight  of  his  love  had  overmastered  him.  With  all 
the  vividness  of  a  lively  imagination,  he  lived  through  the 
horrible  fate  that  awaited  him  on  the  morrow — lived 
through  the  pain  and  the  shame  and  the  indignity,  strug- 
gled in  the  death-agony,  till  his  heart  sickened  and  his 
brain  reeled.  Not  even  the  quiet  of  the  condemned  cell 
was  to  be  his,  for  he  was  not  condemned  to  death,  only  he 
had  been  warned  of  his  fate.  Laughter  and  brutal  jests  fell 
upon  his  ear  ;  the  ward  seemed  like  a  hell  that  night,  yet 
that  night,  for  the  first  time,  he  nearly  succumbed  to  its 
temptations. 

A  number  of  drunken  revellers  were  sitting  not  far  from 
him  ;  their  noisy  song  reached  him  distinctly  in  his  dusky 
corner  ;  he  watched  the  group  with  a  sort  of  fascination, 
and  listened  to  the  following  words  : — 

"  And  when  grim  death  doth  take  my  breath, 
He'll  find  me  with  boon  comrades  merry ; 
He'll  find  me  drinking,  drinking  deep, 

Sing  derry  down,  down  deny ! 
Death  we  defy !     Pain  comes  not  nigh 
While  drinking,  drinking,  drinking !  " 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  was  on  his  way  to  join  the 
merry  party,  when  something  dragging  at  his  doublet 
made  him  pause.  He  looked  down,  and  saw  Delaune's 
little  child.  All  the  afternoon  he  had  been  contentedly 
trundling  his  apple  about  the  ward  ;  now  he  had  cut  it  in 
half,  and,  hungrily  eating  one  bit,  held  the  other  up  to 
Hugo.  It  diverted  him  from  his  purpose  ;  he  took  the 
child  on  his  knee,  touched  with  the  little  thing's  love  and 
gratitude.  His  childish  prattle  made  him  smile. 

Laughingly  they  fed  each  other  with  the  apple,  Hugo 
making  a  feint  of  eating  a  little  to  please  the  child.  At 
last,  when  all  was  finished,  the  little  one  began  to  yawn 
and  rub  his  eyes. 


2  82  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

"Tom  sleepy!"  he  said,  piteously, — "no  bed  for 
Tom  !  " 

Hugo  was  roused  by  this  remark  ;  the  ward  was  terribly 
crowded  that  night,  for  in  the  last  few  days  there  had  been 
many  fresh  arrivals.  He  looked  round  and  saw  that  De- 
laune  and  his  wife  and  her  babe  were  sitting  all  huddled 
up  together  on  a  rough  wooden  bench  at  the  other  side  of 
the  room.  They  looked  so  miserable  that  he  forgot  his 
own  misery  in  pitying  them.  What  could  be  done  for 
them  ?  He  looked  at  his  own  particular  corner  and  his 
uncomfortable  plank  bed.  It  would  be  better  than  noth- 
ing. Examining  the  place  carefully,  he  found  two  nails 
in  the  angle  of  the  wall ;  he  tried  hanging  his  cloak 
across  the  corner,  but  it  made  a  very  ineffectual  screen. 
Just  at  that  minute  Scroop  returned  to  the  ward. 

"  Have  you  borne  the  letter?  " 

Then,  as  the  jailer  nodded,  Hugo  placed  in  his  hand 
one  of  his  few  remaining  coins. 

"There  is  one  thing  more  I  would  fain  have.  Tis  the 
last  favor  I  will  ask  of  you.  I  want  a  piece  of  sacking — 
a  large  piece. " 

The  jailer  muttered  something  inarticulate,  but  went 
away,  returning  in  a  few  minutes  with  a  piece  large  enough 
to  screen  off  as  much  of  the  crowded  ward  as  was  at 
Hugo's  disposal.  He  had  some  difficulty  in  getting  it  up  ; 
in  doing  it  he  forgot  his  own  fate,  and  was  for  the  time 
almost  happy,  while  Tom  sat  on  the  floor  watching  him 
and  sucking  his  thumb  philosophically. 

"Now,  little  imp,"  said  Hugo,  smiling,  "come  and 
peep  at  your  new  chamber." 

Tom  lifted  the  sacking  and  looked  in  at  the  dim  expanse 
of  planks. 

"  Comfy,"  he  said,  clapping  his  hands  and  laughing 
merrily,  ' '  comfy  !  " 

That  was  reward  enough  for  Hugo.  He  laughed  a  little, 
caught  the  child  up  in  his  arms  and  strode  across  the  ward 
to  speak  to  the  parents. 

"  I  have  done  what  I  can  for  you,  sir,"  he  said  to  De- 
laune.  '*  Your  wife  will  find  a  sort  of  rough  shelter  yon- 
der ;  I  beg  that  you  will  take  my  quarters  for  to-night,  for 
I  shall  be  gone  on  the  morrow." 

Delaune  grasped  his  hand  and  thanked  him  warmly. 
His  wife  did  not  speak,  but  as  she  rose,  with  her  baby  in 
her  arms,  she  looked  up  at  Hugo  with  a  gratitude  in  hei 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  283 

eyes  which  lingered  pleasantly  in  his  memory.  But  not 
even  the  charms  of  the  dusky  little  corner  behind  the  cur- 
tain could  tempt  little  Tom  to  desert  his  new  friend ; 
he  clung  tightly  to  him,  and  begged  so  piteously  to  be 
"kept"  that  Hugo  yielded,  and,  finding  by  good  chance 
a  vacant  place  beside  the  hearth,  crouched  down  on  the 
ground  as  near  the  fire  as  might  be  with  the  child  in  his 
arms. 

"Take  me  wivyou  on  the  morrow,"  said  Tom,  sleepily. 

There  was  such  a  babel  all  around  that  they  could  talk 
without  the  risk  of  being  overheard. 

"I  cannot  do  that." 

"Why  can't  you  take  Tom  too  ? " 

"Because  I  am  going  to  die." 

" To  Die, "  repeated  Tom,  dreamily.  "Where  is  Die? 
1  would  like  to  go  too." 

"Not  yet,  poor  little  imp,"  said  Hugo,  smiling  sadly. 
"There,  kiss  me  and  go  to  sleep." 

The  child  looked  up  at  him  for  a  moment  with  his 
Bolemn,  sleepy  eyes.  "Good-night,"  he  said,  drowsily. 
"But  I  wish  little  children  could  go  to  Die.  Die  is  better 
than  prison,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Hugo,  with  a  quiver  in  his  voice,  "it  is 
better.  Good-night,  little  one." 

The  rosy  lips  met  his,  and  almost  the  next  minute  the 
child  was  fast  asleep. 

After  awhile  the  drunken  revel  ended,  oaths,  songs, 
laughter  died  away  into  silence,  sleep  fell  on  the  wretched 
prisoners,  and  stillness  reigned  in  the  ward  ;  by  the  light 
of  the  dying  embers  Hugo  could  dimly  discern  the  out- 
line of  the  prostrate  forms,  and  the  untroubled  face  of  the 
little  sleeping  child  on  his  knee.  He  was  glad  to  be 
quiet ;  the  solemn  stillness  seemed  to  calm  his  mind,  he 
could  think  of  the  morrow  with  less  dread,  could  see 
through  to  the  other  side  of  the  suffering. 

"  Was  it  not  for  Joyce's  father  ?  Was  it  not  in  a  sense 
for  Sydney  ?  "  He  could  think  of  Joyce  more  calmly  now, 
Joyce  whom  he  had  bidden  to  hold  herself  as  free,  Joyce 
who  might  now  be  wooed  and  won  by  other  men.  That 
thought  did  not  torture  him  as  it  had  done  when  Scroop 
had  borne  away  the  budget.  He  lost  the  thought  of  him- 
self, thought  only  of  her  in  her  guileless  simplicity,  her 
sweet  purity.  Lovingly,  and  with  much  joy  mingled 
with  the  pain,  he  lingered  over  his  recollections  of  her, 


284  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

In  the  dreary  Newgate  ward  there  rose  up  for  him  the 
fairest  of  visions,  the  sweet,  sunshiny  face,  the  blue  eyes 
that  had  always  met  his  so  innocently  and  confidingly, 
the  tender  little  mouth  with  its  mingled  sweetness  and 
firmness.  Never  once  had  he  seen  a  shade  of  aught  that 
was  hard  or  bitter  in  her  expression.  Even  on  that  memo- 
rable night  when  he  had  made  his  confession  to  her,  when 
with  natural  indignation  she  had  turned  upon  him  with 
the  question,  "Why  did  you  seek  to  injure  my  father?" 
there  had  been  nothing  petty  or  personal  in  her  anger. 
And  how  soon  her  tender  charity  had  sought  an  excuse  for 
him !  how  quick  she  had  been  to  check  that  impulse  to 
blame  another ! 

Far  on  into  the  night  he  sat  dreaming  of  her,  or  rather 
wakefully  living  through  again  that  brief  passage  in  his 
life  which  had  changed  his  whole  world,  as  love  does 
change  the  world  of  all  of  us,  for  good  or  for  ill.  His  arms 
grew  stiff  and  weary  with  holding  little  Tom,  but  he  could 
not  bear  to  disturb  the  child,  and  at  length  from  excessive 
weariness  he  fell  asleep,  forgetting  the  fatigues  of  the  long 
and  eventful  day,  nor  bestowing  one  thought  upon  them 
in  his  dreams.  For  two  hours  he  slept  as  tranquilly  as  a 
child.  But  towards  morning  he  dreamed  strangely. 

He  thought  he  was  once  more  in  Germany ;  Count 
Hugo's  castle  on  the  Rhine  once  more  rose  before  him, 
with  its  brown  and  rugged  towers,  and  its  battlements 
sharply  defined  against  a  clear  frosty  blue  sky.  Some- 
thing of  stir  and  commotion  in  the  air  warned  him  of 
change  in  that  quiet  country-side,  and  drawing  nearer  to 
the  foot  of  the  hill  on  which  the  castle  stood,  he  saw  that 
it  was  in  a  state  of  siege,  and  that  the  enemy  had  pitched 
their  tents  in  the  valley.  He  could  hear  the  busy  sounds 
of  life  coming  from  the  camp,  could  see  the  soldiers  fetch- 
ing water  from  the  Rhine,  and  at  the  door  of  the  largest 
tent,  from  which  floated  the  royal  pennon,  he  could  see  the 
King  and  Randolph  talking  together.  Just  then  he  became 
aware  of  a  sound  of  voices,  and  looking  up  he  saw  close 
beside  him  an  old  peasant  talking  to  a  little  crying  child. 

He  approached  them,  and  asked  who  the  child  was, 
and  what  he  did  there. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  old  peasant,  "he  is  the  son  of  Coun* 
Hugo  up  yonder  at  the  castle,  but  the  Count's  enemies 
have  taken  him  prisoner,  and  though  they  treat  him  kindly 
and  let  him  roam  about  thus  far,  the  little  lad  frets  for  his 


Iff  1HE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  285 

father,  and  to  be  in  the  old  castle  once  more. "  Then  turn- 
ing to  the  child,  ' '  Yet  do  I  not  tell  thee,  boy,  that  'tis  best 
here,  where  thou  canst  eat  and  drink  as  thou  wilt  with  no 
let  or  hindrance." 

But  the  child  only  sobbed  the  more,  calling  for  its 
father,  and  for  one  to  bear  it  home. 

Hugo  looked  irresolutely,  now  at  the  royal  tent,  now  at 
the  crying  child.  Finally  he  thought  of  good  Count  Hugo, 
and  looked  at  the  castle  high  up  on  its  lofty  rock. 

"They  have  no  right,  no  right  to  steal  you  !  "  he  cried, 
suddenly  snatching  up  the  child  in  his  arms. 

The  peasant  whimpered  something  about  the  "  divine 
right  of  kings  !  " 

"Nothing  is  divine  save  the  just  and  the  loving  !  "  cried 
Hugo.  "  He  who  is  just  and  true  and  wise,  he  who  lives 
for  the  people,  is  king  of  men — none  other." 

"Bear  me  home!"  sobbed  the  child.  "Bear  me 
home !  " 

Then  he  gathered  himself  together,  and  with  one  glance 
at  the  hostile  camp  below,  began  to  scale  the  steep  rock, 
and  he  knew  that  to  scale  it  meant  death  to  himself,  yet 
hoped  that  he  might  shield  the  child,  and  struggle  on  till 
he  reached  the  summit  All  around  him  whizzed  the 
arrows,  one  pierced  his  shoulder,  then  another  and  another, 
till  he  was  like  the  picture  of  St.  Sebastian  in  the  church, 
and  growing  faint  with  loss  of  blood  he  staggered,  and 
almost  fell  with  his  burden.  But  the  child  was  unhurt, 
that  nerved  him  to  struggle  on  to  the  end,  nerved  him  to 
resist  the  creeping  numbing  cold  that  made  his  limbs 
almost  powerless.  At  last  with  a  mighty  effort  he  dragged 
himself  to  the  summit  of  the  rock,  and  staggered  along 
the  narrow  platform  which  led  from  the  drawbridge ;  the 
watchman  caught  sight  of  the  child,  ordered  the  bridge  to 
be  lowered,  and  gave  the  word  in  the  castle.  There  was 
a  great  shout  of  joy  raised,  and  a  sound  of  doors  opening 
and  many  feet  approaching,  while  Hugo  staggered  across 
the  courtyard,  and  laid  his  burden  at  the  feet  of  his  great 
namesake.  And  when,  exhausted  by  the  effort,  he  lay 
a-dying,  the  Count  bent  over  him  with  a  beautiful  smile 
on  his  face,  and  whispered  in  his  ear  so  that  he  alone 
might  hearken, 

"It  is  the  Christ-Kind  you  have  carried." 

Then  yet  another  form  drew  near,  a  black-robed  form 
with  stern  face ;  and  drawing  closer  so  as  to  hide  all 


286  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

sight  of  Count  Hugo  and  the  child,  he  laid  a  cold  hand 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  said, 

"  Your  time  is  come  !  Has  death  no  terrors  for  you, 
that  you  lie  thus  smiling  ?  " 

' '  No  terrors  !  "  he  exclaimed,  conscious  of  a  great  joy 
in  his  heart  of  which  he  could  not  speak.  "No  terrors  ! 
I  die  for  the  Christ-Kind. " 

He  opened  his  eyes.  Scroop  stood  beside  him,  shak- 
ing his  shoulder  roughly  but  not  unkindly. 

"Well,  sir,  they  most  of  them  sleep  quiet  enough,  poor 
souls,  before  they  go  out  to  die,"  he  said,  regarding  Hugo 
curiously,  "but  I  never  yet  saw  one  who  could  speak  of 
dying  with  a  smile." 

Hugo  glanced  round  the  ward,  where,  in  the  dim  light 
of  the  winter  morning,  he  could  discern  the  worn  faces  of 
his  fellow-prisoners. 

"  It  is  death  that  I  am  leaving  here,"  he  said,  thought- 
fully. Then,  kissing  the  little  child,  who  still  slept  in  his 
arms,  he  placed  him  carefully  on  the  floor,  covering  him 
with  his  cloak.  "  Be  kind  to  that  little  imp  for  my  sake, 
Scroop,"  he  said. 

The  jailer  promised,  and  led  him  out  of  the  ward  to  his 
own  room,  where  he  had  prepared  a  breakfast  for  him. 
Hugo  was  touched.  He  tried  to  eat  enough  of  the  broiled 
beef,  and  to  drink  enough  of  the  spiced  ale,  to  satisfy 
Scroop,  who  hovered  over  him  with  a  restless  look,  which 
sat  strangely  on  his  hard,  grim  features.  Then  came  a 
final  interview  with  Ambrose  Philips,  one  more  ineffectual 
effort  to  make  him  yield ;  but  neither  threats,  nor  re- 
proaches, nor  taunts  could  ruffle  him  that  day.  Philips 
retired,  owning  himself  beaten,  and,  almost  immediately 
after,  Scroop  returned. 

"You  have  but  a  couple  of  minutes  more,  sir,"  he  said, 
his  gruff  voice  a  degree  gruffer  than  usual. 

"It  is  enough,"  said  Hugo,  quietly  ;  and,  kneeling,  he 
once  more  repeated  Mary  Denham's  collect,  breathed  the 
names  of  Joyce,  Colonel  Wharncliffe,  Sydney,  Randolph; 
then,  rising  to  his  feet,  threw  aside  his  doublet  and 
vest. 

"I  am  ready,"  he  said.      "Lead  on." 

Scroop  thought  of  that  first  night,  when  he  had  led  him 
into  Newgate,  and  his  heart  smote  him. 

"  I  have  oftentimes  been  rough  and  rude  with  you,  sir/ 
be  said,  regretfully  ;  "I  crave  your  forgiveness." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  287 

"  I  am  sure  you  have  it,"  said  Hugo,  smiling  a  little. 
"  I  should  have  fared  ill  without  you,  Scroop.*' 

After  that  he  did  not  speak,  but  walked  steadily  along 
the  cold  stone  passages.  Then  the  great  door  was  thrown 
wide,  and  he  was  led  forth.  The  cold  November  wind 
on  his  bare  shoulders  made  him  shiver  slightly ;  but,  with 
head  erect,  he  walked  on,  fearlessly  taking  in  all  the  details 
of  the  scene  :  the  staring  crowd,  the  cart  and  horse,  Ketch, 
the  hangman,  armed  with  the  terrible  "cat,"  and  the 
prison  official  waiting  with  a  cord  to  bind  his  arms.  He 
had  scarcely  advanced  more  than  two  or  three  paces, 
however,  when  there  was  a  movement  in  the  crowd,  as 
of  some  one  forcing  his  way  to  the  front.  A  moment 
more,  and  old  Jeremiah  rushed  forward,  his  blue  livery 
half  torn  off  his  back,  his  white  hair  streaming  in  the 
wind,  his  wrinkled  face  wet  with  tears. 

"My  master!  my  dear  young  master!"  he  cried. 
"They  cannot  keep  me  from  you  now  !  " 

"Why,  Jerry  !  "  exclaimed  Hugo,  his  face  lighting  up; 
"  to  see  you  is  almost  worth  a  whipping.  Come!  there 
is  no  call  to  weep  over  me.  I  shall,  at  any  rate,  be  a 
man  of  action  to-day  !  " 

But  at  this  Jeremiah  only  wept  the  more. 

"  Do  not  grieve,"  said  Hugo,  in  a  low  voice.  "  'Tis  for 
the  sake  of  one  whom  you  love.  A  less  glorious  and  sure 
way  of  helping  him  than  that  which  the  Ironside  effected 
at  Marston  Moor,  but — perhaps  not  wholly  inglorious 
neither." 

In  comforting  the  old  serving-man  he  had  forgotten  to 
feel  the  humiliation  of  being  tied  to  the  cart's  tail,  and 
the  presence  of  the  old  soldier  gave  him  a  curious 
strength. 

"They  cannot  part  me  from  thee  now,  lad,"  said  Jere- 
miah, dashing  the  tears  from  his  eyes  that  he  might  see 
more  clearly. 

"No,"  said  Hugo,  thoughtfully.  "Freedom  lies  along 
this  road,  Jerry." 

And  as  the  procession  moved  off,  and  that  last  terrible 
journey  began,  he  said  to  himself  again  and  again  words 
which  had  often  comforted  him  in  Newgate  : — 

"  Sleepe  after  toyle,  port  after  stormie  seas, 
Ease  after  warre,  death  after  life,  does  greatly  please." 

And  Jeremiah  walked  side  by  side  with  his  master. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 
JOYCE'S  JOURNAL. 

When  sorrow  would  be  seen, 

In  her  bright  majesty — 

For  she  is  a  queen — 

Then  is  she  dressed  by  none  but  thee; 

Then,  only  then,  she  wears 

Her  richest  pearls — I  mean  thy  tears. 

Not  in  the  evening's  eyes. 
When  they  red  with  weeping  are, 
For  the  sun  that  dies, 
Sits  sorrow  with  a  face  so  fair ; 
Nowhere  but  here  doth  meet 
Sweetness  so  sad,  sadness  so  sweet. 

CRASHAW. 

NOVEMBER,  1683. — I  never  thought  months  could  seem 
so  long.  But  five  have  passed  by  since  the  day  Hugo 
was  borne  away  from  Mondisfield,  and  yet  the  time  seems 
to  me  more  like  to  five  years.  We  have  tried  to  go  on 
just  as  usual,  thinking  it  best  so,  but  oftentimes  it  has 
been  hard  to  do  it.  A  great  gloom  has  fallen  on  the  whole 
place.  The  corn  ripened  as  usual,  and  we  went  into  the 
harvest-field  and  watched  the  men  at  work  and  helped  the 
women  to  bind  the  sheaves,  and  afterwards  went  a-glean- 
ing  as  usual  to  help  some  of  the  poorer  village  folk.  Then 
came  the  in-gathering,  but  with  no  harvest  supper,  for 
how  could  we  feast  and  make  merry  with  my  father  in 
exile.  After  that  came  ^he  apple-gathering,  which  made 
me  think  of  that  October  day  last  year  when  I  first  saw 
Hugo.  It  seems  to  me  now  passing  strange  to  think  of 
that  duel  upon  which  so  much  hinged.  It  frightens  me  to 
recollect  how  much  has  in  truth  sprung  from  just  that 
simple  fact  that  Evelyn  and  I  went  into  the  road  a-black- 
berrying.  Ttf  we  had  not  gone  there  would  have  been  no 
duel,  no  meeting  of  Hugo,  no  delay  of  their  calvacade  at 
the  "White  Horse,"  no  knowledge  of  Mr.  Ferguson's 
Trisit,  no  dispersal  of  the  congregation  in  the  barn,  no 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  289 

secret  clue  for  cousin  Randolph  to  work  upon,  no  tempta- 
tion for  Hugo,  no  exile  for  my  father.  I  suppose  it  is 
indeed  ever  so,  and  that  upon  all  our  trivial  actions  and 
words  there  follow  long  chains  of  results  that  we  little 
dream  of  at  the  time.  And  this,  methinks,  is  a  conviction 
which  should  sober  us  impulsive  folk,  and  make  us  seek 
right  patiently  the  true  wisdom. 

April,  1684. 

I  was  writing  this  in  the  musician's  gallery,  a  place  I 
must  ever  love  now  above  all  others  in  the  house,  when 
I  heard  the  galloping  of  horse's  feet  in  the  drive.  I  thought 
it  might  be  the  post-boy  with  perchance  a  letter  from  my 
father,  for  now  that  he  is  in  safety  at  Amsterdam  he  has 
ventured  to  write  to  my  mother  more  than  once.  Run- 
ning down  the  stairs  with  all  speed  I  hurried  out  to  the 
door,  and  had  flung  it  open  just  as  the  post-boy  reined  in 
his  steed,  a  gallant  bay,  with  wreaths  of  foam  on  his  neck, 
for  the  post  ever  rides  apace.  The  boy  raised  his  hat 
respectfully,  and  took  from  his  bag  a  letter — actually  a 
letter  for  me — the  first  I  ever  received  in  my  life.  I  knew 
in  an  instant  that  it  must  be  from  Hugo,  and  this  I  suppose 
must  have  shown  in  my  face,  for  the  post-boy,  well 
pleased,  muttered  something  which  I  had  rather  he  had 
not  so  much  as  thought,  and  made  me  blush  hotly.  I 
ran  quickly  in  search  of  my  mother,  having  no  money  to 
pay  the  postage,  and,  finding  her  in  the  north  parlor, 
showed  her  the  letter. 

"Stay  here  and  read  it,  my  little  daughter,"  she  said. 
"I  will  pay  the  man." 

I  needed  no  second  bidding,  for  a  great  hope  had 
arisen  in  my  heart  Surely  if  Hugo  had  at  length  found 
means  to  write  to  me  then  he  must  be  at  liberty  once 
more,  or  at  any  rate  in  less  strict  durance.  I  know  not 
what  vain  castle  in  the  air  I  had  raised  even  while  break- 
ing the  seal,  for  I  fear  it  hath  ever  been  my  way  to  hope, 
and  to  look  for  a  speedy  end  to  all  care,  since  trouble  and 
sorrow  doth  seem  foreign  to  one's  nature.  Thus  the 
sudden  downfall  of  the  vain  hopes  made  the  reading  of 
that  letter  all  the  harder ;  I  came  more  nigh  to  swooning 
than  ever  before  in  my  life,  yet  did  not  wholly  give  way, 
for  we  Wharncliffes  are  strong  and  healthy,  and  do  not 
easily  succumb.  My  mother,  was  some  time  gone;  I 
had  taken  that  one  fatal  glance  at  the  letter,  and  then, 


290 


THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 


after  a  long  pause,  had  been  able  to  read  it  steadily 
through  before  she  returned.  It  was  very  clearly  written, 
indeed  it  was  the  most  beautiful  and  delicate  handwriting 
I  had  ever  seen.  This  was  how  it  ran,  I  copy  it  here  in 
my  journal,  for  I  should  like  the  descendants  to  know 
how  true  and  noble  my  Hugo  was,  and  naught  can  show 
that  so  well  as  his  own  words. 

"  MY  DEAR  LOVE, 

"  At  length  there  comes  to  me  an  opportunity  of 
writing  to  you.  My  jailer  to  whom  I  owe  much,  and 
who  of  late  hath  ever  been  kind  to  me,  having  promised 
to  bear  this  letter  to  one  Mistress  Denham,  a  friend  of 
mine,  who,  knowing  your  name,  will  without  risk  be  able 
to  forward  this  to  you.  My  dear  heart,  you  will  pardon 
these  ill-penned  lines,  but  I  write  in  the  midst  of  noise  and 
confusion  in  the  common  prison,  and  my  mind  is  like  to 
the  ward — full,  too,  of  confusion  and  trouble.  I  do  not 
(enow  whether  perchance  you  have  had  news  of  my  trial, 
which  took  place  on  the  seventh  day  of  this  month.  My 
pentence  was,  as  I  had  looked  for,  life-long  imprisonment, 
with,  moreover,  some  additional  seventies,  which,  I  am 
well  informed,  are  like  to  cost  me  my  life.  But,  dear 
heart,  these  said  severities  are  in  truth  a  kindness,  for  a 
long  life  in  Newgate  would  be  a  sore  trial  and  temptation. 
Did  you  know  how  terrible  have  been  these  five  months 
since  I  parted  from  you — did  you  know  what  pain  and 
Buffering  I  have  borne,  and  what  grievous  temptation 
hath  assailed  me,  you  would  rejoice  when  hearing  that  he 
who  loves  you — he  whom  you  love — is  likely  to  die 
•hortly. 

"  Sleepe  after  toyle,  port  after  stormie  seas, 
Ease  after  warre,  death  after  life,  does  greatly  please." 

Often  have  those  words  comforted  me  in  my  dungeon  ; 
and  though  there  doth  at  times  come  the  craving-  for  life, 
and  the  pining  for  liberty,  and  most  of  all  the  longing  for 
you,  my  dear  one,  yet  I  willingly  embrace  a  death  which 
means  the  safety  and  life  of  your  father,  and  which  may 
perchance  blot  out  the  memory  of  the  wrong  I  wrought 
him.  I  pray  you  give  my  duty  to  both  your  father  and 
mother,  and  1  crave  the'r  forgiveness  for  all  my  offences. 
Especially  I  trust  they  will"  not  deem  that  1  did  very 


m  THE  GOLDEff  DA  YS.  39 1 

*g  hi  speaking  to  you  that  day  of  my  love.  In  any 
case  tell  them  this, — that  your  love  hath  been  to  me  as  a 
strong  shield,  and  hath  saved  me  from  hell  on  earth. 

"When  all  is  said,  however,  it  doth  still  remain  that 
our  joy  hath  been  cruelly  short-lived.  But  at  least  let  me 
feel  that  I  hare  not  spoilt  your  life— let  me  believe  that 
you  will  not  be  the  poorer  all  your  days  for  this  brief  in- 
terlude. AboTe  all  things,  I  would  have  you  happy.  To 
have  saddened  those  dear  eyes,  to  have  darkened  the  life 
I  found  so  blight — that  would  indeed  be  a  hard  fate. 
Dear  one,  I  pray  that  you  will  not  let  this  fate  be  mine. 

"The  jailer  waits,  and  these  poor  words  must  go. 
Read  in  them,  dearest  heart,  the  love  I  cannot  write.  I 
dreamed  last  night  that  your  father  was  at  home  and  in 
safety  once  more,  that  the  household  was  again  bright 
and  peaceful,  and  that  you  were  standing  by  the  elm-trees 
at  the  gate,  happy  and  smiling  as  was  ever  your  wont.  I 
think  the  dream  will  come  true  ;  I  pray  you  to  let  your 
share  in  it  be  true,  and  wherever  I  may  be  I  think  I 
shall  know  it.  My  dear  one,  I  kiss  your  hands.  And  so 
farewell 

"  Youre  in  all  love  and  devotion, 

"  HUGO  WHARNCLIFFE. 

"Written  in  Newgate,  the  aoth  November,  1683." 

I  do  not  well  know  what  happened  afterwards,  only  the 
<iay  was  lived  through  somehow,  and  the  next,  and  the 
next,  till  a  se'nnight  had  gone  by.  My  mother  kept  me 
much  with  her,  and  taught  me  some  difficult  new  stitches 
in  embroidery,  and  drove  over  with  me  to  St.  Edmonds- 
bury  in  the  coach,  and  bought  some  fine  woollen  material, 
which  she  said  I  might  embroider  as  a  gown  for  the  little 
daughter  of  the  vicar  of  Osedean.  I  found  a  strange 
comfort  in  learning  this  embroidery,  which  was  odd  for 
one  who  cared  so  little  for  needlework  ;  but  I  seemed  to 
have  no  heart  for  books  or  music,  and  it  was  a  sort  of 
relief  to  stitch  my  grief  into  that  little  gown.  And  at 
length  hope,  which  should  have  been  killed  by  that  letter, 
sprang  up  once  more,  and  I  could  not  but  think  that  Go<£ 
would  not  let  Hugo  perish  in  that  horrible  place,  but  that 
he  would  save  him  and  bring  him  back  to  us.  My  mother 
thought  there  might  be  some  mention  of  him  perchance 
in  the  news-letter,  and  oh  !  how  I  watched  for  its  advent  t 


292 


JN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 


There  was,  unluckily,  a  snowstorm  which  made  it  two 
days  later  than  usual,  but  at  length  one  snowy  forenoon 
there  rode  up  the  drive  Sir  Henry  Dale's  groom — Sir 
Henry  being  a  neighbor  of  ours  some  six  miles  hence, 
and  who  undertakes  to  pass  us  on  the  news-letter,  which 
we  in  turn  send  to  the  vicar  of  Osedean.  I  was  sitting  in 
the  window-seat  of  the  north  parlor  when  I  saw  the 
groom  ride  over  the  bridge,  but  though  so  longing  to  have 
the  letter  I  could  not  stir  an  inch  to  get  it — could  only  wait 
what  seemed  an  eternity  while  Roger  took  it  in  at  the 
front  door,  and  paused  to  fetch  the  man  a  tankard  of  ale 
to  hearten  him  for  his  return  journey.  Then  at  last — and 
how  plainly  I  can  see  it  all  ! — Roger  came  into  the  parlor 
bearing  the  letter  on  the  salver  and  handed  it  uncon- 
cernedly to  my  mother,  rubbing  the  salver  with  his  coat- 
sleeve  as  soon  as  she  had  removed  the  damp  budget, 
lest  the  silver,  which  is  the  pride  of  his  dear  old  heart, 
should  be  tarnished. 

Then  my  mother  broke  seal  of  the  'budget  and  hastily 
read  through  the  letter.  I  saw  her  turn  very  pale  as  she 
read,  and  then,  unable  to  bear  the  waiting  any  longer,  I 
sprang  forward,  begging  her  to  tell  me  the  worst  at  once. 

"It  is  as  we  feared,  my  little  daughter,"  said  my 
mother,  putting  her  arm  round  me,  and  trying  to  check 
her  tears.  "But  in  this  be  comforted,  dear  child — your 
lover  has  died  right  nobly." 

I  think  my  heart  must  have  stopped  beating ;  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  left  off  living,  and  when  life  began  again  I 
was  years  older.  And  yet  there  we  were  still  in  the  north 
parlor — the  room  where  he  told  me  he  loved  me — and 
there  were  alj  the  portraits  looking  down  at  us  just  as 
they  had  looked  down  upon  Hugo  and  me  that  mid- 
summer day  ;  but  he,  my  own  true  love,  was  dead  ! 

I  wanted  to  know  more,  and  held  out  my  hand  for  the 
letter,  and,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  my  mother  gave 
it  to  me,  and  pointed  to  the  paragraph.  I  remember  it 
came  after  a  far  longer  one  about  the  illness  of  the  King 
of  Portugal,  the  queen's  brother,  and  the  news-letter  dis- 
coursed much  as  to  whether  the  whole  town  would  be 
put  into  solemn  mourning  as  well  as  the  Court  upon  his 
death,  which  appeared  imminent. 

Then  followed  these  lines  : — 

"Some  talk  hath  been  raised  about  the  sentence  passed 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  293 

by  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  on  a  young  Templar  who,  it  is 
said,  had  much  knowledge  of  the  Plot,  which,  however, 
naught  would  induce  him  to  reveal.  The  said  Mr.  Hugo 
Wharncliffe,  who  is  well  known  in  the  town  on  account 
of  his  fine  voice,  was  yesterday  morning  whipped  from 
Newgate  to  Tyburn  by  the  common  hangman.  It  is  said 
that  he  was  warned  by  the  authorities  that  he  ran  much 
risk,  seeing  that  he  was  weakened  by  illness  and  long  im- 
prisonment ;  but,  though  offered  a  free  pardon  did  he  but 
reveal  what  he  knew  against  the  enemies  of  the  govern- 
ment, he  persisted  in  his  obstinate  silence,  and,  to  the 
general  regret,  hath  in  this  useless  way  sacrificed  a  life 
which  promised  great  things.  His  friends  were  in  wait- 
ing at  Tyburn  with  a  hackney  coach,  to  which  he  was 
carried  in  a  dying  condition,  and,  though  a  leech  was  at 
hand  to  render  prompt  assistance,  Mr.  Wharncliffe  expired 
just  as  they  reached  Newgate." 

After  that  came  an  account  of  the  trial  of  Mr.  Algernon 
Sydney,  but  I  could  not  read  it  then,  because  I  could 
think  of  nothing  but  that  awful  scene  which  the  news- 
letter put  so  blandly  in  a  few  cold  lines. 

Oh,  my  love  1  my  love  !  do  they  call  yours  an  "  Obsti- 
nate silence  !  "  Do  they  seek  to  shelter  themselves  by  cast- 
ing blame  on  you?  As  though,  forsooth,  you  were  like  to 
save  yourself !  As  though  you  were  like  to  ruin  those  for 
whom  already  you  had  done  so  much. 

Just  a  few  more  words  to  this  journal,  which  began  so 
peacefully  and  ends  so  sorrowfully.  After  hearing  of 
Hugo's  death  I  had  a  long  illness.  I  am  well  again  now, 
and  my  hair  has  grown  once  more  and  my  color  come 
back,  yet  there  are  times  when  it  is  hard  to  try  to  keep 
my  love's  last  wish  and  request.  It  seems  to  me  like  one 
of  these  April  days,  when  you  have  been  glorying  in  the 
sunshine,  and  all  at  once  the  sun  goes  behind  a  cloud  and 
leaves  you  shivering.  And  my  sun  will  not  come  out 
again.  Yet  is  the  sun  eternal,  and  shining  still  behind 
the  blackness  that  separates  us,  and  my  true  love  is  at 
rest,  and  has  left  pain  and  grief  forever. 

The  bad  winter — the  worst  we  have  had  in  England  for 
many  generations — has  kept  us  much  to  ourselves,  and 
many  of  the  news-letters  have  never  been  forwarded,  so 
impassable  were  the  roads.  My  mother  wrote  to  cousin 
Randolph  Wharncliffe,  but  he  took  no  notice  of  her  letter, 


294  tN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

therefore  we  have  had  no  further  account  of  Hugo's  last 
days.  But  we  have  learnt  of  his  trial  from  John  Pettit  at 
the  "White  Horse,"  who  had  to  appear  as  witness,  and 
grumbled  sore  at  having  to  make  so  long  a  journey.  He 
must  have  left  London  just  before  that  2ist  of  November, 
which  must  ever  be  for  me  a  day  of  mourning.  But,  since 
he  had  not  seen  his  father  for  nigh  upon  fourteen  years, 
he  tarried  at  Bishop-Stortford  on  his  way  back,  and  so  did 
not  bring  us  his  hews  until  after  the  fatal  news-letter  had 
reached  us.  I  remember  well  the  day  of  his  coming.  It 
was  just  before  I  was  taken  ill,  and  I  was  sitting  with  my 
spinning-wheel  in  the  gallery  when  Pettit  was  shown  into 
the  hall,  and  my  mother  made  him  sit  by  the  hearth  and 
tell  all  he  could  about  the  trial.  And  when  I  heard  how 
Hugo  would  ask  of  his  brother  no  question  at  all,  and 
that  he  had  made  his  own  defence  right  ably,  and  had  ever 
kept  a  steady  and  even  temper,  though  that  bad  judge 
treated  him  so  ill,  then  a  glow  of  pride,  almost  of  happi- 
ness, filled  my  heart,  even  though  I  could  not  help  but 
weep  when  Pettit  told  how  wan  and  ill  he  seemed,  so 
changed  he  hardly  knew  him  for  the  same. 

But  all  that  is  over  now,  nor  will  I  dwell  on  that  last 
terrible  day,  which  yet  will  haunt  me  in  my  dreams.  I 
will  not  think  of  my  love's  pain  and  suffering,  but  of  his 
courage  and  of  his  noble  constancy,  of  his  patience,  and 
of  his  forgiveness  of  the  one  who  had  wronged  him  most 
of  all.  Thinking  thus  will,  I  know,  help  me  to  keep  his 
last  wish,  and  to  bear  a  cheerful  heart  and  face.  It  shall 
never  be  said  that  he  darkened  my  life  !  Nay,  rather — 
my  life,  God  helping  me,  shall  be  a  better,  and  truer,  and 
fuller  thing  for  these  brief  months. 

There  is  like  to  be  much  on  hand  in  these  next  weeks, 
for  my  father  desires  us  to  join  him  at  Amsterdam,  seeing 
that  there  is  as  yet  no  likelihood  of  his  being  able  to  return 
to  England.  He  can  no  longer  endure  to  have  us  away 
from  him,  and  so,  if  all  things  can  be  arranged,  we  are  to 
leave  Mondisfield  before  long,  a  kinsman  of  my  mother's 
taking  charge  of  the  property  until — if  ever — we  return. 
I  think'we  shall  return,  because  I  cannot  believe  that  Hugo's 
life  was  given  in  vain.  I  think  my  father  will  one  day 
have  his  own  again.  I  think  Hugo's  dream  will  come 
true. 


THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  39$ 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 
WOMAN'S  WORK. 

A  heart  unspotted  is  not  easily  daunted. 

King  Henry  VI. 

THE  King  paced  to  and  fro  in  his  private  room, at 
Whitehall,  the  room  in  which  he  had  interviewed  Hugo. 
He  was  evidently  ilj  at  ease,  the  wrinkles  and  lines  on  his 
forehead  which  Hugo  had  noted  on  the  previous  day  were 
now  far  deeper,  and  a  lameness  to  which  he  had  of  late 
been  subject  showed  more  than  ever  in  his  gait.  The 
ticking  of  his  many  clocks  and  pendules  annoyed  him. 
He  ordered  one  of  his  attendants  to  stop  them,  with  the 
exception  of  one  which  stood  upon  the  carved  mantelshelf. 
Then,  further  giving  orders  that  he  should  be  left  alone,  he 
continued  his  restless  walk,  glancing  now  at  the.  clock, 
now  at  the  picture  of  Hobbes  just  above  it,  now  at  the 
Noli  me  Tangere  opposite  the  door.  The  clock  struck  six, 
and  the  King  muttered  an  impatient  oath. 

"So  late  1 "  he  exclaimed,  under  his  breath.  "  I  doubt 
matters  have,  after  all,  gone  ill.  Damnation  take  Jeffreys, 
if  he  fails  in  getting  the  verdict  !  " 

He  continued  his  restless  walk  for  some  quarter  of  an 
hour,  making  every  now  and  then  ejaculations  of  impa- 
tience until  at  length  one  of  the  ushers  appeared  at  the 
door. 

"The  Lord  Chief  Justice  is  in  waiting,  and  craves  an 
audience  of  your  Majesty,"  he  announced. 

The  King  gave  orders  that  he  should  be  at  once  admit- 
ted to  the  presence,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  choleric- 
J^>oking  Jeffreys,  with  his  large,  heavy-jawed,  sensual  face, 
was  ushered  into  the  King's  private  room. 

"I  bring  your  Majesty  good  news,"  he  said,  modulating 
his  harsh  voice  to  a  fawning  and  courtier-like  tone. 
"The  jury  have  brought  in  a  verdict  of  "guilty."  I  and 
my  learned  friends,  having  consulted  together  how  we 
might  best  compass  the  death  of  Colonel  Sydney,  have  suc- 
ceeded indifferently  well,  my  liege. " 


j(j6  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

He  smiled  blandly,  but  it  was  a  smile  that  made  even 
the  King  wince. 

"Did  the  jurors  take  long  in  agreeing?"  asked  the 
King,  sharply. 

"Well,  my  liege,"  said  Jeffreys,  "I  own  that  they  were 
inclined  to  be  restive,  even  though  they  had  been  most 
carefully  selected  for  the  purpose,"  he  chuckled  to  himself 
involuntarily.  Then,  remembering  that  he  was  in  the 
King's  presence,  went  on,  more  soberly — "Knowing  the 
importance  of  the  case,  I  made  bold,  my  liege,  to  follow 
them  out  of  court,  on  pretence  of  taking  a  cup  of  sack, 
and  then  I  took  the  opportunity  to  give  them  more  par- 
ticular instructions.  After  that,  they  were  but  a  half-hour 
gone,  and  returned  with  the  verdict  against  Colonel 
Sydney.  I  trust  your  Majesty  is  satisfied  ?  " 

"Quite  satisfied,"  said  the  King ;  but  nevertheless  there 
were  signs  in  his  face  that  he  was  passing  through  some 
inward  struggle. 

"  My  liege,"  said  Jeffreys,  "  I  trust  you  will  pardon  me 
the  boast,  but  I  must  say  that  no  man  in  my  place  hath 
ever  rendered  unto  any  King  of  England  such  services  as 
I  have  rendered  your  Majesty  this  day.  Not  only  have  I 
made  it  pass  for  law  that  any  man  may  be  tried  by  jurors 
who  are  not  freeholders,  but  I  have  made  it  pass  also  that 
one  witness  can  condemn  a  man,  provided  there  be  any 
concurrent  circumstances.  Your  Majesty  is  well  rid  of 
this  traitor. " 

"That is  very  true,"  said  the  King.  "I  am  aware  that 
you  have  rendered  me  very  valuable  services  in  an  excep- 
tional case.  Wear  this  in  remembrance  of  the  day,"  he 
drew  from  his  finger  a  costly  ring,  and  handed  it  to  the 
Lord  Chief  Justice,  who  withdrew  with  many  expressions 
of  gratitude  and  loyalty. 

When  he  was  gone,  the  King  flung  himself  back  in  a 
chair,  with  a  sigh  of  weariness  and  disgust.  He  had  ob- 
tained his  wish,  but  he  had  obtained  it  in  a  way  which 
jarred  upon  his  better  nature ;  and  then,  moreover,  it 
sickened  him  to  think  that  fiends  incarnate  like  Jeffreys 
would  fawn  upon  him  and  kiss  his  hand,  while  such  as 
Hugo  Wharncliffe  shrank  back,  and  told  him  to  his  face 
that  he  was  no  better  than  a  murderer.  He  looked  at  the 
place  where  the  ring  had  lately  been,  as  though  he  half 
expected  to  see  there  the  bloodstain  of  which  Hugo  had 
spoken.  Then,  suddenly  remembering  that  by  this  time 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  297 

the  speaker's  fate  would  have  been  decided,  he  hastily 
summoned  one  of  his  attendants. 

"  Hare  you  heard  aught  of  Mr.  Wharncliffe  ? "  he  asked, 
not  trying  to  conceal  his  anxiety. 

It  was  well  known,  however,  that  the  young  tenor  had 
always  been  a  favorite  with  the  King,  .and  the  gentleman 
showed  no  surprise. 

"I  heard  at  noon  to-day,  my  liege,  that  he  died  as  they 
bore  him  back  to  Newgate,"  he  replied.  "But  it  was  no 
more  than  a  rumor,  and  possibly  ill-founded." 

"I  wish  to  know  the  truth,"  said  Charles,  hastily. 
•'  Let  inquiry  be  made  at  once,  and  bring  me  full  particu- 
lars. " 

The  messenger  returned  more  speedily  than  the  King 
had  expected. 

"Tidings  have  this  moment  arrived,  my  liege,  that  the 
report  was  false.  Mr.  Wharncliffe  did  but  swoon  as  they 
bore  him  back  to  the  jail.  His  friend,  Sir  William  Denham, 
had  brought  to  his  assistance  a  noted  leech,  and  he  recov- 
ered the  prisoner  after  a  while.  They  say  he  may  last  out 
the  night,  which  will  save  the  scandal  of  his  dying  on  the 
road. " 

"Then  he  is,  after  all,  dying?"  said  the  King,  with 
keen  disappointment  in  his  voice.  "As  well  have  died 
at  once." 

' '  Yes,  my  liege,  they  say  he  is  dying  past  dispute ;  but 
'tis  surely  better  that  he  should  die  in  private,  as  it  were. 
A  death  on  the  road  would  provoke  comment  and  give 
scandal." 

"Confound  scandal !  "  said  the  King,  angrily.  "What 
is  that  to  me,  when  I  would  have  the  man  alive,  not  dead? 
A  fig  for  scandal  ?  There,  leave  me  !  I  would  be  alone." 

Hugo's  words  returned  to  him  now  very  bitterly.  "My 
God  !  to  think  what  power  rests  with  one  man  ! " 

Power  did  in  truth  rest  with  him  !  Would  that  it  did 
not.  He  hated  his  power  just  then,  for  he  was  keenly 
conscious  that  he  had  abused  it.  Gladly,  oh,  how  gladly 
would  he  at  that  moment  have  changed  places  with  any 
one  of  his  subjects  !  Once  more  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
white  haggard  face  was  raised  to  his  with  that  passionate 
appeal  for  mercy  towards  Sydney,  or,  rather — for  there 
had  been  pride  mingled  with  the  request — not  for  mercy, 
but  merely  common  justice.  And  what  had  he  done? 
He  had  allowed  the  noble  petitioner,  the  man  whom  he 


398  1^  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

knew  to  be  innocent,  to  be  flogged  to  death,  while  the 
man  who  had  violated  the  law  and  desecrated  justice  he 
had  sent  away  with  a  special  token  of  his  royal  favor. 
Should  he  even  yet  save  Sydney's  life  ?  Should  he  make 
even  now  an  effort  to  repair  the  horrible  injustice  which 
he  had  countenanced  and  rewarded!  A  strong  desire  for 
right  took  possession  of  him.  After  a  moment's  thought 
he  did  the  wisest  thing  he  could  have  done,  and  sent  a 
message  to  Lord  Halifax,  desiring  to  speak  with  him. 

Halifax  was  Sidney's  nephew  by  marriage,  and  had  for 
some  time  been  one  of  the  ruling  spirits  of  the  day.  He 
was  the  head  of  those  men  in  the  state  who  were  called 
"Trimmers,"  but  he  himself  was  loth  to  be  looked  upon  as 
the  head  of  any  party,  even  of  that  which  avoided  all  ex- 
tremes, for  he  disapproved  of  party  altogether,  and  while 
disagreeing  very  much  with  his  uncle's  views,  disapproved 
quite  as  much  of  the  King's  despotic  rule.  He  was  a 
keen,  clever,  broad-minded  man,  and  a  man  who  invari- 
ably sided  with  the  persecuted.  His  interview  with  the 
King  was  not  long,  but  it  was  fruitful  in  results. 

That  evening,  when  Hugo  lay  dying  in  Newgate,  and 
Algernon  Sydney  in  his  cell  in  the  tower  sat  writing  the 
account  of  his  mockery  of  a  trial  to  the  King,  and  praying 
for  an  audience,  Charles  himself  was  quietly  stealing 
down  his  back  staircase  alone  and  unattended.  Outside 
he  found  in  waiting  a  hackney-coach,  and  within  Lord 
Halifax,  who  greeted  him  as  though  he  were  some  ordi- 
nary friend,  and  bending  forward  bade  the  coachman 
drive  to  the  house  of  one  Major  Long  in  the  City.  The 
King  spoke  little,  but  he  looked  eager  and  anxious,  and 
from  time  to  time  glanced  out  of  the  window  of  the  coach 
to  see  what  progress  they  were  making.  Arriving  at 
length  at  Major  Long's  house,  they  were  ushered  into  a 
large  room  hung  with  tapestry  and  dimly  lighted  by  wax 
candles  ;  the  King  made  Halifax  go  first,  and  kept  his 
own  face  wrapped  in  a  muffler  until  the  servant  who  had 
admitted  them  was  out  of  sight,  then  he  tossed  it  im- 
patiently aside,  and  crossing  the  room,  which  was  empty, 
stood  before  the  fire,  the  look  of  impatient  anxiety  in  his 
face  deepening  every  moment 

"Is  this  the  way  for  a  son  to  treat  a  father  ? "  he  ex- 
claimed at  last,  turning  angrily  to  Halifax.  "  I  did 
wrong  in  coming  here  ;  I  compromise  my  dignity.  Dotb 
he  keep  me  waiting  as  though  I  were  some  churl  ? " 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  299 

"My  liege,  believe  me,  the  Duke  is  entirely  repentant," 
said  Lord  Halifax.  "But  doubtless  he  dreads  the  meet- 
ing, fearing  your  displeasure.  And  for  your  dignity,  my 
liege,  methinks  it  will  not  be  compromised  by  going  half- 
way to  meet  the  erring  one  like  him  we  read  of  in  the 
Scriptures. " 

/  As  he  spoke  the  door  opened  and  there  entered  a  young 
man,  negligently  dressed  in  a  suit  of  shabby  black  velvet. 
He  was  the  prodigal  in  question,  Charles's  favorite  son,  the 
Duke  of  Monmouth,  who,  having  compromised  himself 
several  times  by  countenancing  insignificant  and  unsuc- 
cessful plots,  was  now  in  hiding  in  the  City,  having  con- 
trived to  escape  when  the  news  of  the  Rye-House  Plot 
was  first  published.  His  face,  though  a  trifle  too  broad 
for  its  length,  was  strikingly  handsome,  the  dark  eyes 
were  large  and  liquid,  the  contour  of  the  cheeks  beautiful 
as  a  woman's.  But  although  his  appearance,  combined 
with  the  unmistakable  Stuart  charm  of  manner,  precisely 
fitted  him  for  the  role  of  popular  idol,  he  was  altogether 
lacking  in  the  manliness,  the  self-reliance,  and  the 
dogged  perseverance  which  must  characterize  a  popular 
leader. 

Lord  Halifax  looked  uneasily  from  one  to  the  other, 
upon  the  King's  brow  stern  displeasure  strove  hard  to  sub- 
due the  tenderer  feelings  which  were  at  once  excited  by  the 
sight  of  his  favorite,  while  Monmouth,  though  extremely 
fond  of  his  father,  seemed  little  inclined  at  that  moment 
to  own  himself  in  the  wrong,  or  humbly  to  sue  for  for- 
giveness. The  peacemaker,  like  all  peacemakers,  had  an 
anxious  time  of  it,  particularly  as  he  was  naturally  unable 
to  take  any  part  in  the  interview,  and  could  only  view  it 
from  a  discreet  distance.  He  knew  how  much  depended 
on  its  results,  and  waited  in  breathless  suspense,  while  the 
King,  with  great  severity,  yet  with  the  air  of  a  father, 
reproached  the  Duke  for  consorting  with  men  who  were 
known  to  be  hostile  to  him,  and  for  taking  council  with 
those  who  must  in  the  end  prove  his  ruin.  Finally  he 
offered  him  a  free  pardon  provided  that  he  would  in  all 
things  submit  without  reserve  to  the  royal  pleasure. 

Monmouth  seemed  to  waver,  an  impulse  seized  him  to 
fling  himself  at  his  father's  feet,  and  make  a  comfortable 
ending  of  his  exile  and  disgrace,  but  a  second  impulse 
restrained  him,  he  swayed  to  and  fro,  not  knowing  what 
course  to  take.  And  thus  in  uncertainty  the  interview 


3oo 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 


ended,  Charles,  however,  showing  him  such  marked  af- 
fection on  leaving  that  Halifax  greatly  hoped  his  mission 
would  after  all  prove  successful. 

Making  haste  to  follow  up  his  advantage,  he  returned 
later  in  the  evening,  and  after  much  persuasion  induced 
Monmouth  to  write  a  penitent  letter  to  the  King.  One  by 
one  he  forced  out  the  reluctant  admissions,  regret  for  all  his 
past  offences,  a  petition  that  he  might  not  be  put  upon  his 
trial  or  sent  to  prison,  a  request  for  advice  as  to  how  he  might 
best  appease  the  wrath  of  the  Duke  of  York,  and  finally  a 
politic  sentence  which  cost  Halifax  at  least  half-an-hour's 
argument  with  the  reluctant  scribe — "  I  throw  myself  at 
the  feet  of  your  Majesty,  to  be  disposed  of  as  your  Majesty 
shall  direct  for  the  remainder  of  my  life." 

Having  extorted  this  much,  Halifax  was  content,  and 
went  away  wearied  yet  not  ill-satisfied  with  his  evening's 
work.  He  had  not  calculated,  however,  on  the  man  with 
whom  he  had  to  deal,  nor  did  he  in  the  least  understand 
the  strange  mixture  of  nobility  and  weakness,  impulsive- 
ness and  generosity,  love  of  peace  and  impatience  of  evil 
which  characterized  the  young  duke. 

As  he  passed  down  Newgate  Street,  the  sight  of  a  pri- 
vate coach  at  the  main  entrance,  and  the  somewhat  un- 
usual spectacle  of  a  lady  being  escorted  into  the  jail,  made 
him  pause  for  an  instant.  He  looked  after  the  retreating 
forms,  then  he  glanced  at  the  livery  of  the  serving-man, 
and  at  the  device  upon  the  coach  door.  Notwithstanding 
the  uncertain  light  of  his  torch,  he  saw  enough  to  con- 
vince him  that  the  arms  emblazoned  on  the  panel  were 
the  Denham  arms. 

"They  go  to  bid  farewell  to  that  poor  victim  of  Jeffreys," 
he  said  to  himself,  and  with  that  he  sighed  and  fell  into  a 
painful  reverie. 

In  the  mean  time,  Sir  William  led  Mary  through  the 
dismal  passages  in  the  great  prison.  Their  admittance  at 
such  an  hour  was  a  great  privilege,  but  now  that  Hugo's 
sentence  had  been  carried  out,  now  that  the  work  for  which 
he  had  been  needed  had  perforce  been  carried  through 
without  his  aid,  the  prison  authorities  were  quite  willing 
to  grant  some  slight  indulgence  to  one  whom  they  knew 
to  have  been  grossly  ill-treated.  All  was  over  now,  the 
victim  had  but  a  few  more  hours  to  live — they  were  will- 
ing to  gratify  his  dying  wishes. 

"  He  has  been  asking  for  you  all  the  evening,"  said  Sir 


IN  THE  GOLDEtf  DA  YS.  301 

William.  "  Your  name  is  the  only  one  that  hath  passed 
his  lips.  And  perchance  you  with  your  woman's  skill 
may  be  able  to  do  more  for  his  comfort,  poor  lad,  than 
we  rough  men-folk." 

This  had  passed  in  the  coach,  as  they  drove  from  Nor- 
folk Street  to  the  jail. 

"  I  am  glad  you  summoned  me,  sir,"  said  Mary,  grate- 
fully, and  there  was  a  tremor  in  her  voice  which  did  no! 
escape  her  uncle's  notice. 

"  My  dear  niece,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  in  the  dark- 
ness, "hath  aught  passed  betwixt  you  and  Hugo  ?  Have 
there  been  love  passages  betwixt  you,  my  dear?  " 

"Never,  uncle,"  she  said,  resolutely;  "but  he  hath 
ever  counted  me  as  his  sister,  so  much  so  as  to  make  me 
the  confidant  of  his  troubles.  For  you  must  know  that 
he  loves  a  maiden  whom  I  must  not  name  to  you.  But 
methinks  I  have  not  broken  trust  by  telling  you  thus 
much." 

"I  would  he  had  loved  thee,"  said  Sir  William.  "An 
thou  hadst  been  betrothed  to  him,  it  would  have  been 
less  like  to  cause  scandal  that  I  bring  thee  to  visit  him  thus. 
Art  prepared  for  that,  my  love  ?  Folks  credit  not  such 
friendships  as  thine  in  these  evil  days." 

The  hot  blood  rushed  to  her  cheeks  and  the  tears  to  her 
eyes.  She  knew  that  her  uncle  spoke  the  truth  ;  she  knew, 
moreover,  that  Hugo  had  asked  for  her  just  because  she 
was  the  one  medium  of  communication  between  himself 
and  Joyce.  Well,  at  least  she  could  be  to  him  that  medium. 
At  least  she  could  bring  him  a  comfort  which  no  one  else 
could  bring.  Angrily  and  almost  contemptuously  she 
strangled  the  thoughts  of  self  which  had  arisen,  and 
turned  instead  to  the  two  whom  she  had  schooled  herself 
always  to  think  of  together — Hugo  and  Joyce.  For  Joyce, 
whom  she  had  never  seen,  had  become  to  her  a  very  real 
person  ;  she  had  loved  her  when  she  had  only  guessed 
that  Hugo  loved  her,  she  had  sympathized  with  her 
through  the  long  months  of  that  sad  autumn,  and  had 
gladly  forwarded  Hugo's  letter  to  her  on  the  previous  day. 
She  had  indeed  learnt  to  think  so  much  of  her  that,  as  she 
walked  along  the  dreary  prison  corridors,  it  was  no  thought 
of  herself  which  filled  her  heart  with  sorrow  and  her  eyes 
with  tears  ;  neither  was  it  any  thought  of  Hugo.  It  was 
the  thought  of  the  other  who  would  so  fain  have  been  in 
her  position,  of  the  unknown  Joyce  far  away  in  the  old 


302 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 


Suffolk  hall,  who  would  not  so  much  as  know  that  her  j 
was  dying. 

They  had  mounted  some  tedious  flights  of  stairs,  and 
now  the  jailer  paused  before  a  narrow  door,  and  softly 
opened  it.  Mary  glanced  hastily  round.  It  seemed  to 
her  a  most  wretched  little  room,  almost  full  of  people,  but 
for  Newgate  it  was  princely  accommodation.  For  Scroop 
had  taken  care  that  the  prisoner  should  not  be  taken  back 
to  his  old  quarters  in  the  Common-Debtors'  Ward  ;  but, 
determined  that  he  should  at  least  die  in  peace,  had  borne 
him  to  his  old  room,  for  which  upon  his  entrance  he  had 
paid  so  heavy  a  fee.  Bampfield  and  Griffith  stood  beside 
his  bed,  and,  in  curious  contrast  to  the  two  aged  ministers, 
Rupert  Denham,  in  his  usual  many-colored  raiment,  and 
the  richly-dressed  leech.  At  their  approach,  Rupert 
turned,  and,  drawing  back  from  the  bedside,  made  room 
for  Mary. 

Then  for  the  first  time  she  caught  sight  of  Hugo — for 
the  first  time  since  that  May  morning  when  he  had  come 
to  tell  them  about  his  visit  to  Penshurst,  and  to  claim  their 
pity  for  himself  on  account  of  that  visit  to  Longbridge 
Hall  which  he  had  so  greatly  dreaded.  She  remembered 
how  they  had  managed  to  cheer  him  and  had  sent  him 
off  laughing.  His  face — young,  fresh,  and  healthful — 
rose  before  her.  Was  it  possible  that  this  could  be  Hugo 
— this  man  with  lines  of  care  on  his  brow,  with  lines  of. 
pain  round  his  mouth,  with  a  face  so  white,  so  changed, 
so  deathly  ?  Ah  !  what  had  they  been  doing  to  him  to 
change  him  thus  ? 

A  passion  of  love  and  pity  seemed  to  fill  her  whole  be- 
ing, and  to  crowd  out  every  other  thought.  She  was 
vaguely  conscious  all  the  time  that  old  Jeremiah  sat  at 
the  head  of  the  bed  holding  his  young  master  in  his  arms, 
but  for  the  other  spectators  she  had  no  thought  as  she 
knelt  beside  him,  bent  down  close  to  him,  and  called  him 
by  name.  There  was  no  answer  however,  and  she  heard 
a  whisper  from  the  leech  which  seemed  to  pierce  her 
heart  like  a  sword-thrust. 

"  Past  speaking,  I  fear.     Sinking  fast" 

"Hugo,  Hugo  !  "  she  cried,  in  an  agony,  "I  am  come 
to  you,  Hugo  !  I  have  sent  your  letter  to  Joyce  !  " 

His  eyelids  seemed  to  quiver  a  little,  and  Mary  in- 
stinctively knew  what  spell  had  brought  him  back  t<> 

"I  have  sent  your  letter  to  Joyce,"  she  repeated. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  303 

The  great  gray  eyes  were  now  open,,  not  dreamily 
peaceful  as  of  old,  but  bright  with  pain,  and  at  the  same 
time  eagerly  wistful. 

"  Have  you  no  message  to  send  to  her?  "  asked  Mary. 
"The  poor  child,  you  would  not  leave  her  with  no  com- 
fort— no  last  word." 

Ke  seemed  to  make  a  great  effort  in  obedience  to  her 
request. 

"  Tell  her,"  he  whispered,  faintly,  "that  it  was  for  her, 
and  therefore  sweet." 

"What  was  sweet? " 

"To  die." 

The  words  were  more  breathed  than  spoken. 

"  Nay,"  said  Mary,  "but  you  must  live  for  her,  not  die, 
Hugo."  She  glanced  quickly  at  the  leech,  who  placed  in 
her  hands  a  cup  containing  some  strong  restorative.  And 
Hugo,  who  had  refused  or  had  been  unable  to  swallow  it 
before,  now  obeyed  mechanically,  while  Mary  talked  on 
soothingly  as  though  he  had  been  a  child.  "You  will 
take  it  for  her  sake,  will  you  not,  Hugo  ?  You  would  not 
grieve  her  by  dying,  you  know ;  you  will  struggle  hard 
to  live,  just  for  her.  She  is  so  young — so  young  to  b& 
left  to  such  sorrow.  You  will  get  better,  and  then  you 
will  write  to  her.  Trust  me,  I  will  send  your  letters. " 

"  I  don't  understand,"  hes^id,  pitifully,  but  with  more 
strength  in  his  voice.  "I  can  do  naught  for  her  here. 
'Tis  all  over.  Let  me  die." 

"That  will  I  not,"  she  said  resolutely.  "You  can- 
not understand,  Hugo,  but  you  must  trust  me.  Some 
more  cordial.  There  !  Now  you  must  sleep.  For  her 
sake,  you  know,  for  her  sake." 

She  kept  passing  her  fingers  rhythmically  through  his 
hair  from  front  to  back.  She  was  kneeling  upright  now, 
that  she  might  have  more  power ;  she  did  not  understand 
why  it  was,  but  this  apparently  mechanical  action  seemed 
to  make  vast  demands  on  her  strength.  No  one  inter- 
fered with  her,  they  had  all  tried  their  best  with  the  pa- 
tient, and  had  failed ;  they  watched  with  a  sort  of  curi- 
osity, glancing  now  at  the  pale,  resolute,  absorbed  face  of 
the  girl,  now  at  the  calm  face  on  the  pillow.  Presently 
they  saw,  to  their  surprise,  that  Hugo  had  fallen  asleep 
like  a  child.  His  nurse  rose  then  ;  she  looked  worn  out 
and  exhausted,  and  there  were  dark  shadows  beneath  her 
eyes.  She  laid  her  hand  on  Rupert's  arm. 


304  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

"Take  me  home  please,  cousin,  take  me  home,"  sh« 
said,  with  again  that  irrepressible  quiver  in  her  voice. 

And  Rupert  silently  obeyed. 

The  leech  looked  after  her  curiously  as  she  left  the 
room.  She  had  succeeded  where  he  had  failed.  He 
knew  well  enough  that  the  patient  owed  his  life  to  her. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

THE  SEVENTH  OF  DECEMBER. 

There  is  no  murder  which  history  has  recorded  of  Cassar  Borgia  ex- 
ceeds in  violence,  or  in  fraud,  that  by  which  Charles  took  away  the  life 
of  the  gallant  and  patriotic  Sydney.  LORD  JOHN  RUSSELL. 

IT  was  many  days  before  Hugo  was  capable  of  think- 
ing clearly.  Life  was  a  kind  of  vague  pain  ;  his  shoul- 
ders were  so  cruelly  torn  and  lacerated  that  the  slightest 
movement,  even  the  action  of  breathing,  was  torture, 
while  the  exposure  to  the  raw  cold  of  the  November  day 
had  brought  back  his  old  enemy  the  ague.  He  was  as  ill 
as  he  well  could  be,  but  alive,  and  likely  to  live.  Every 
one  dinned  this  continually  in  his  ears,  and  he  did  not 
feel  grateful  to  them,  though  doing  his  best  to  feel  glad 
that  they  were  glad 

Often  as  he  lay  there  in  his  weakness,  he  would  try  to 
call  up  in  vision  that  2ist  of  November.  But  he  never 
could  recall  it  clearly,  for,  happily  for  human  beings, 
physical  pain  cannot  be  very  vividly  recalled,  but  is 
dimmed  and  blurred  by  the  passage  of  time.  He  had 
only  the  vaguest  recollections  of  great  suffering,  though 
one  or  two  trivial  incidents  were  indelibly  stamped  upon 
his  brain.  He  remembered  noticing  a  holly-tree  in  the 
Oxford  Road  laden  with  red  berries  ;  he  remembered  the 
pitying  face  of  a  child ;  he  remembered  how,  just  at  the 
end  of  that  awful  journey,  when  Tyburn  was  in  sight,  he 
had  heard  a  robin  singing  among  the  bushes  by  the  road- 
side. And  most  vividly  he  could  recall  the  comforting 
presence  of  old  Jeremiah.  Thinking  it  all  over  one  day, 
he  began  to  wonder  how  Jerry  had  learnt  of  his  fate ; 
how  he  had  persuaded  Randolph  to  allow  him  to  come  to 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  305 

the  prison.  Had  his  brother  some  lingering  love  for  him 
after  all?  Had  he  perhaps  sent  the  old  serving-man, 
though  he  would  not  come  himself?  He  turned  round 
with  almost  the  first  voluntary  question  he  had  put  since 
his  illness.  The  old  soldier  sat  beside  him  as  usual,  in- 
deed he  almost  lived  with  him,  being  the  last  visitor  to 
leave  Newgate  at  night  and  the  first  to  arrive  in  the 
morning. 

"  Did  my  brother  send  you?  "  he  asked,  faintly. 

"No,  dear  lad,"  said  Jeremiah,  "he  sent  me  not;  I 
am  no  longer  in  his  service. " 

It  was  a  bitter  disappointment.  Hugo  kept  silence  for 
some  time.  Then  the  consciousness  of  Jerry's  devotion 
began  to  comfort  him  again,  and,  thinking  of  the  old 
servant,  he  turned  hastily  with  a  second  question. 

"Why  did  you  quit  his  service  ?  Was  it  for  me,  Jerry, 
for  me  ? " 

"Ay,  dear  lad,"  said  Jeremiah,  quietly.  "What  else 
would  you  have  ?  I  did  but  stay  with  him  till  they  would 
let  me  come  to  thee  here.  I  will  call  no  one  master 
save  thee." 

"A  sorry  master,"  said  Hugo,  with  the  ghost  of  a  smile 
flitting  across  his  haggard  face.  "A  master  who  will 
end  his  days  in  jail,  and  who  has  no  power  of  giving 
wages.  An  unprofitable  service,  Jerry.  I  am  a  bad 
investment." 

Then  seeing  the  doubtful,  bewildered  look  on  the  old 
man's  face  he  changed  his  tone,  and,  taking  the  rough 
hand,  clasped  it  fast  in  both  of  his.  "God  bless  you  for 
it,  Jerry,  God  bless  you  !  " 

That  was  all  that  ever  passed  between  them  on  the 
subject,  neither  of  them  being  men  of  many  words. 

Mary  and  Sir  William  had  visited  him  daily,  but  it  was 
not  until  the  afternoon,  when  he  had  had  the  above  con- 
versation with  Jeremiah,  that  he  took  very  much  note  of 
their  presence  or  attempted  to  talk  to  them.  He  was 
now  much  mo  ;e  himself,  and  welcomed  them  with  some 
show  of  eagerness.  Then,  when  Sir  William  was  en- 
grossed in  conversation  with  Bampfield,  he  for  the  first 
time  asked  Mary  about  his  other  letter. 

"You  have  said  naught  of  Colonel  Sydney,"  he  said, 
quietly.  "  You  sent  him  my  letter?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary,  "Ducasse  gave  it  to  him  that  very 
day." 


306  Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

"Do  not  fear  to  tell  me  the  worst,"  said  Hugo, 
gently.  "  The  trial  went  against  him,  did  it  not?" 

She  signed  an  assent. 

"The  King  told  me  his  fate  was  sealed,"  said  Hugo. 

"When  is  it  to — to- "  he  broke  off,  unable  to  frame 

the  words. 

"That  is  not  yet  certain  ;  no  warrant  has  been  issued 
as  yet ;  and,  Hugo,  I  hardly  know  whether  I  ought  to  say  it, 
but  we  heard  it  rumored  that  the  King  seemed  to  waver 
after  receiving  Colonel  Sydney's  account  of  the  trial. 
They  say  too  that  the  pardon  of  the  Duke  of  Monmouth 
may  have  some  bearing  upon  Colonel  Sydney's  case." 

"  What !  the  duke  pardoned?  "  exclaimed  Hugo. 

"Ay,  he  was  at  Whitehall  not  many  days  since,"  said 
Mary.  "And  they  say  he  hath  made  full  confession  and 
hath  told  the  King  all  that  he  knew  of  the  conspiracy. 
He  saw  the  King  and  the  Duke  of  York,  and  hath  re- 
ceived his  pardon  under  the  great  seal.  Moreover,  we 
heard  it  from  one  high  in  authority,  whom,  however,  I 
must  not  name,  that  the  King  had  given  him  six  thou- 
sand pounds,  and  had  taken  him  once  more  into  favor." 

"What  does  that  bode?"  said  Hugo,  musingly.  "I 
should  not  have  thought  the  duke  would  have  turned 
informer." 

"That  is  what  no  one  will  believe,"  replied  Mary; 
"  and  they  say  that  he  goes  about  everywhere  dropping 
hints  that  he  said  naught  to  the  King  which  could  crim- 
inate any  of  those  brought  up  for  trial.  And  this  having 
reached  the  King's  ears,  he  is  very  angry  with  him  again, 
and  they  say  he  insists  that  the  duke  shall  write  and  sign 
a  statement  confirming  all  that  passed  in  the  interview." 

"You  have  brought  me  hope,"  said  Hugo,  gratefully  ; 
"you  have  made  me  better  already." 

"There  is  one  thing  more  I  must  tell  you,"  said  Mary, 
with  a  happy  light  in  her  eyes.  "That  same  one  whom 
I  mentioned  to  you  told  us  also  that  he  believed  your 
interview  with  the  King  had  much  to  do  with  his  hesita- 
tion about  Colonel  Sydney,  that  and  your — your  illness." 

They  were  both  of  them  young  and  hopeful ;  they 
thought  that  already  the  good  would  be  brought  out  of 
the  evil ;  they  thought  they  should  see  of  the  travail  of 
their  souls,  and  be  satisfied  here  and  now.  But  the  very 
next  day  there  came  a  sharp  reverse.  Whigs  and  Tories 
alike  were  startled  and  shocked  when  the  warrant  WHS 


Iff-  THb  vOLDEN  DAYS.  307 

issued,  "contrary  to  all  men's  expectations,"  for  the 
execution  of  Algernon  Sydney.  They  hesitated  at  first  to 
tell  the  ill  news  to  Hugo,  but  at  length  Sir  William  bade 
his  niece  break  the  tidings  to  him  as  gently  as  might  be. 
It  was  hard  work,  and  yet  she  was  glad  that  they  had 
chosen  her  for  the  task. 

It  was  a  bitterly  cold  winter's  morning,  and  she  had 
brought  with  her  to  the  prison  all  manner  of  wraps  for 
the  invalid  from  Lady  Denham  :  she  talked  as  long  as  she 
could  about  trivial  matters,  deferring  the  evil  day.  But 
such  little  expedients  are  of  no  use  between  friends. 
Hugo  instantly  perceived  how  matters  were. 

'  You  have  something  to  tell  me  ? "  he  said,  quietly. 
'We  hoped  too  soon,  Hugo,"  she  replied,  in  a  choked 
vo  ce. 

The  warrant  is  issued?  " 
•Yes." 

4 What  day?" 

;  The  seventh  of  December." 

'Friday,"  said  Hugo,  musingly.  "A  fit  day  for  one 
who  dies  for  the  people."  Then,  shuddering,  and  with 
a  look  of  horror  in  his  eyes,  "It  will  not  be  the  worst 
way,  will  it?" 

"No,  no,"  she  replied,  quickly.  "They  will  spare 
him  that.  He  will  be  beheaded." 

' '  O  God  1  "  he  cried,  "  if  I  could  but  be  with  him  !  Tis 
hard,  'tis  hard,  that  the  wretchedest  beggar  in  London 
may  look  his  last  on  him  while  I  lie  here  in  jail !  " 

He  turned  faint,  and  Mary  had  as  much  as  she  could 
do  to  recover  him,  Bampfield  assisting  her,  and  speaking 
kindly  words,  which  comforted  her  afterwards  more  than 
at  the  time.  Presently,  when  Hugo  was  himself  again, 
he  turned  to  her  with  another  question. 

"  What  of  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  ?  " 

"  We  have  heard  from  the  same  source  that  he  did 
write  the  letter  which  the  King  demanded,  but  wrote  it 
evasively  ;  that  the  King  demanded  a  plain  and  unmis- 
takable statement,  and  that,  after  great  hesitation,  he  at 
length  wrote  and  signed  it,  but  had  no  sooner  done  so 
than  he  hurried  to  Whitehall,  overwhelmed  with  shame 
and  horror  at  what  he  had  done,  and  pleaded  passionately 
with  the  King  to  restore  him  the  paper.  The  King,  after 
long  expostulation,  induced  him  to  sleep  upon  the  matter, 
but  the  next  morning  the  duke  returned  with  his  request, 


308  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

and  the  King  restored  the  paper  to  him,  but  by  the  Lord 
Chamberlain  sent  him  word  that  he  was  never  again  to 
come  into  the  royal  presence.  They  say,  the  duke  being 
much  grieved  at  his  father's  severity,  his  wife  persuaded 
him  again  to  sign  a  paper  with  the  information  which  the 
King  desired,  but  His  Majesty  at  once  refused  to  enter- 
tain the  proposal,  and  it  is  thought  that  he  will  persevere 
in  his  intention  of  never  again  seeing  the  duke." 

"And  it  was  after  this  that  the  warrant  was  issued?" 
asked  Hugo. 

"  Yes  ;  the  King,  being  wrath  at  hearing  how  Mon- 
mouth's  friends  were  everywhere  saying  how  he  had  not 
criminated  any  one  by  his  statement,  said  that,  did  he 
pardon  Colonel  Sydney,  he  should  be  countenancing 
these  said  reports.  Ducasse  was  at  our  house  this  morn- 
ing." 

"  Ah  !  "—Hugo's  face  lighted  up — "  what  said  he  of  his 
master  ?  " 

"That  he  was  busy  writing  a  short  account  of  his  life, 
and  that  he  asked  often  after  you,  and  would  write  to 
you — that  he  rejoiced  to  hear  that  you  were  likely  to 
live." 

"And  how  took  he  the  ill  news?  " 

"Ducasse  was  with  him  when  the  sheriffs  arrived  at  the 
Tower.  He  said  his  master  was  surprised,  having 
thought,  like  every  one  else,  that  it  was  impossible  the 
King  would  allow  such  a  mockery  of  a  trial  to  pass.  But 
when  they  handed  him  the  paper,  he  read  it  through  with 
an  unmoved  face,  for  all  the  world  as  though  it  had  been 
a  playbill,  with  details  of  some  mock  tragedy.  And 
when  he  had  ended  he  turned  to  the  sheriffs,  and  said  to 
them  that  he  would  not  say  one  word  to  them  on  his  own 
behalf,  seeing  that  he  was  ready  to  die,  and  that  the 
world  was  naught  to  him  ;  but  very  sternly  he  called  to 
their  remembrance  how  grievously  they  had  sinned 
against  the  people  of  this  land  in  packing  a  jury  and  in 
causing  their  office  to  be  evil  spoken  of  by  acting  thus 
with  injustice  and  servility." 

"That  was  like  him,"  said  Hugo,  in  a  low  voice.  "It 
was  ever  the  'People'  with  him — 'self  never." 

"And  Ducasse  says,"  continued  Mary,  "that  the 
sheriffs  looked  blank  enough  as  though  they  were  pricked 
at  heart,  and  one  of  them  fairly  burst  into  tears." 

Shortly  after  Sir  William  came  to  fetch  his  niece  home, 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  309 

and  seeing  that  Hugo  had  talked  already  more  than  h« 
ought  to  have  done,  and  was  likely  to  talk  so  long;  as  sh« 
remained,  she  thought  it  best  to  leave  the  jail  as  soon 
as  might  be. 

"Uncle,"  she  said,  as  they  drove  back  to  Norfolk 
Street,  ' '  shall  you  go  to  be  present  at  Colonel  Sydney's 
death  ? " 

"No,  my  love,"  said  Sir  William,  with  a  shudder.  "  I 
am  over  old  for  such  horrors.  My  God  !  How  comes 
His  Majesty  to  permit  such  an  injustice  ! "  And  Sir 
William,  staunch  Tory  as  he  was,  broke  into  a  passionate 
denunciation  of  the  wrong  that  had  been  wrought. 

Arrived  at  the  house,  Mary  hastily  sought  her  cousin. 

"  Rupert,"  she  said,  "  are  you  going  to  Tower  Hill  next 
Friday  ? " 

"Not  I,"  he  replied,  with  an  oath,  and  an  irrepressible 
shudder.  "I  have  no  taste  for  death-scenes,  least  of  all 
for  public  ones." 

She  said  no  more,  but  shut  herself  into  the  parlor  and 
tried  to  think  out  the  pros  and  cons  of  the  idea  that  had 
come  to  her. 

Hugo  longed  to  be  present  at  the  last  with  his  friend 
and  teacher,  but  lay  helpless  in  jail.  He  would  wish  to 
hear  from  a  faithful  eye-witness  all  that  passed.  Yet 
more,  he  ought  to  be  told  carefully,  lovingly,  not  coarsely 
and  brutally  by  some  prison  official  or  some  chance 
visitor.  Her  uncle  would  not  go,  her  cousin  would  not 
go — should  she — ah  !  horrible  idea  !  could  she  possibly  go 
herself?  The  mere  thought  sickened  her.  And  yet  was 
she  to  think  of  her  own  feelings  where  Hugo  was  con- 
cerned ?  Was  she  to  be  conquered  by  the  mere  horror  of 
a  frightful  sight,  or  dismayed  by  the  thought  that  people 
might  blame  her,  mistaking  her  motive  ?  She  was  not 
much  in  the  habit  of  consulting  other  people,  being  of  an 
independent  nature,  and  having  always  been  obliged  to 
think  for  herself,  since  Lady  Denham  was  a  semi-invalid, 
Sir  William  absorbed  in  scientific  matters,  and  Rupert  the 
last  person  in  the  world  to  give  help  or  advice  in  any  dif- 
ficulty. So,  after  much  inward  debate,  she  rang  the  bell 
and  summoned  old  Thomas  the  butler. 

"Thomas  "she  said,  bidding  him  close  the  door  be- 
hind him,  "did  you  not  tell  me  you  had  a  kinswoman 
kept  a  house  on  Tower  Hill !  " 

"Ay,  Mistress  Mary.     'Tis  my  ^usja  bv  marriaee.  and 


3io  IN  THE  GOLDEN  &A  VS. 

a  very  worthy  dame  too,  her  husband  is  a  vintner  in  a 
small  way. " 

"Ask  her,  then,  if  you  may  bring  me  to  her  house  on 
Friday  morning,"  said  Mary.  "  Tell  her  that  I  have 
special  reasons  for  desiring  to  see  Mr.  Sydney  once  more 
as  he  passes  to  his  death. " 

The  old  servant  seemed  about  to  make  some  remon- 
strance, but  on  second  thoughts  he  checked  himself,  and, 
without  any  comment,  promised  to  do  as  his  young 
mistress  wished.  The  deed  thus  done,  the  step  irrevo- 
cably taken,  poor  Mary  underwent  a  sharp  reaction,  and 
awaited  the  day  with  dread  and  shrinking  unspeakable. 

It  came  at  length — a  fresh,  bright  December  day.  Very 
early — almost  as  soon  as  it  was  light — Mary  got  into  a 
sedan-chair,  and  with  Thomas  in  attendance  they  made 
their  way  through  the  streets,  having  agreed  that  it  was 
best  to  reach  their  destination  before  the  crowd  of  spec- 
tators should  have  assembled  ;  indeed,  when  they  reached 
Tower  Hill,  there  was  scarcely  a  soul  about,  only  a  few 
street  boys  gaping  up  with  awestruck  faces  at  the  scaffold 
which  some  workmen  were  draping  with  black  cloth. 
Thomas  led  the  way  into  a  respectable-looking  house, 
where  a  bustling  housewife  with  a  round,  rosy  face  came 
out  to  receive  them,  curtseying  low,  and  smiling  with  a 
bland  hospitality  which  seemed  out  of  keeping  with  the. 
day. 

"  Tis  the  best  house  on  all  Tower  Hill  for  the  sight," 
she  said,  cheerfully,  smoothing  her  apron  as  she  spoke. 
"Many's  the  party  that  come  to  me  on  execution  days, 
and  many  is  the  golden  guinea  that  my  windows  have 
gained  me.  Not  but  what  I'm  proud  to  do  it  for  Sir 
William  Denham's  family  just  out  of  respect,  and  taking 
no  account  of  payment." 

"No,  that  must  not  be,"  said  Mary,  pressing  a  gold 
coin  into  the  good  woman's  hand.  "But  yet  for  the  love 
you  bear  my  uncle's  family  I  v^ll  ask  you  as  a  favor,  let 
no  one  else  come  into  the  room  whence  I  am  to  look 
forth." 

The  buxom  housewife  smiled  and  promised,  conduct- 
ing the  visitor  as  she  spoke  to  a  little  disused  room  full  of 
apples  stored  on  long  wooden  shelves  round  the  walls. 

"This  is  a  poor  place,  Madam,  but  I  assure  you  the 
best  view  of  the  scaffold.  You'll  hear  every  word  that 
passes  from  here  !  *  and  with  that  the  worthy  dame  threw 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  3  j  I 

open  the  window  and  was  proceeding  to  tell  Mary  of  all 
the  executions  she  had  witnessed  from  this  particular  spot, 
when  a  knock  below  made  her  hastily  withdraw. 

"  More  spectators,  I  warrant/'  she  remarked  with  satis- 
faction. "But  I  will  mind  and  not  let  them  disturb  you, 
mistress." 

Mary  thanked  her,  but  took  the  precaution  of  bolting 
the  door  as  soon  as  she  was  out  of  hearing.  Then  she 
knelt  down  and  tried  to  prepare  for  the  morning  that 
awaited  her.  After  a  while,  when  she  had  gained  the 
mastery  of  herself  and  was  quite  calm  and  composed,  she 
went  to  the  window  and  looked  forth.  By  this  time  an 
immense  crowd  had  gathered  in  the  open  space  around 
the  scaffold ;  she  could  hear  the  sound  of  many  voices 
rising  up,  a  meaningless  and  ceaseless  roar  which  seemed 
to  throb  against  her  ears  with  every  now  and  then  more 
emphatic  pulsations. 

Gradually  the  throng  grew  thicker  and  denser,  and 
every  window,  and  even  the  roofs  and  chimneys  of  the 
houses  were  crammed  with  eager  on-lookers.  And  now 
the  church  clocks  struck  ten,  and  Mary  observed  a  sort 
of  movement  in  the  huge  swaying  mass  of  heads  below  ; 
she  glanced  at  the  scaffold,  and  saw  that  the  executioner 
had  just  arrived,  and  stood  confronting  the  people  with 
his  black  half-mask  and  the  axe  grasped  in  his  right  hand. 
She  heard  some  one  below  say  the  sheriffs  had  gone  to 
the  Tower,  and  that  "it"  would  be  soon.  Then  came 
a  waiting  which,  though  in  reality  short,  seemed  like  an 
eternity.  Mary  knelt  at  the  window,  her  elbows  on  the 
sill,  her  hands  tightly  clasped,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  most 
distant  point  of  the  narrow  gangway,  the  point  where  she 
knew  that  ere  long  Sydney  would  appear.  At  length 
came  a  second  movement  of  the  heads  below,  a  vibration 
seemed  to  thrill  through  the  dense  crowd,  the  word  was 
passed  from  one  to  another  that  the  prisoner  was  coming. 
Mary's  breath  came  fast,  and  her  heart  throbbed  painfully, 
as  the  familiar  figure  turned  the  corner,  and  advanced 
along  the  narrow  pathway  between  the  people. 

He  had  walked  on  foot  from  the  Tower,  the  sheriffs  on 
either  side  of  him,  while  close  to  him  was  his  faithful 
valet  Ducasse,  and  an  old  family  servant  of  whom  he  was 
fond.  They  were  the  sole  friends  for  whose  presence  he 
had  petitioned,  nor  would  he  have  priest  or  minister  to 
attend  him  in  his  last  moments.  Had  it  not  been  for  the 


JI2  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

grave  sheriffs  and  the  sorrowing  servants,  Mary  could 
have  fancied  that  he  was  but  taking  an  ordinary  walk,  so 
tranquil  and  unmoved  was  his  face,  so  natural  his  mien. 
Many  a  time  she  had  seen  him  enter  her  uncle's  house 
with  a  look  of  care,  and  with  the  gait  of  an  elderly  man  ; 
to-day  he  looked  young  and  alert,  full  of  life  and  yet 
indifferent  to  death,  the  centre  and  chief  attraction  of  that 
huge  assembly,  but  apparently  the  least  concerned  indi- 
vidual in  the  throng. 

Never  once  did  he  speak  to  his  companions — he  had 
ceased  to  think  of  individuals  at  all,  he  had  ceased  even 
to  think  of  himself,  he  thought  of  God — of  God  and  the 
people.  That  vast  crowd  which  had  gathered  together  to 
gaze  at  his  last  sufferings  did  not  in  the  least  disturb  his 
peace.  The  publicity  could  no  longer  gall  him,  since 
the  thought  of  his  own  individuality  had  been  lost  and 
merged  in  something  higher.  Steadily,  briskly,  he  walked 
on  until  he  reached  the  scaffold — the  dreary-looking  scaf- 
fold with  its  mournful  hangings,  its  floor  and  staircase 
covered  with  black.  As  his  foot  touched  the  first  step  he 
paused,  his  other  foot  resting  for  the  last  time  on  the 
fair,  beautiful  earth  which  he  was  leaving  forever.  The 
thought  of  self  returned,  he  glanced  up  the  narrow  black 
stairs,  right  up  to  the  clear  blue  December  sky. 

The  People — and  Death  !  Ay,  he,  Algernon  Sydney — 
he,  spite  of  his  sins  and  shortcomings  and  manifold 
failures,  was  to  die  for  them — for  them  and  their  liberties. 
It  was  well.  He  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven  in  silent 
thanksgiving.  Then  with  his  usual  calm  dignity,  his 
usual  slightly  austere  manner,  he  quietly  walked  up  the 
stairway,  glanced  with  stoical  indifference  at  the  black 
coffin,  and,  making  his  way  to  the  block,  stood  silently 
watching  the  people  below. 

There  was  a  breathless  silence — a  silence  which  might 
be  felt.  Was  he  about  to  address  the  assembly  ?  No, 
that  could  hardly  be,  for  he  raised  his  voice  scarcely 
above  its  ordinary  tone.  So  clear  and  distinct  were  his 
refined  accents,  however,  that  every  word  reached  Mary 
Denham. 

"I  have  made  my  peace  with  God,  and  have  nothing 
to  say  to  men  ;  but  here  is  a  paper  of  what  I  have  to 


IT- 

Wi 


rith  this  he  handed  a  packet  to  the  sheriff,  who  asked 
whether  he  would  not  read  it  to  the  crowd  or  have  it  read. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  31  $ 

But  Sydney,  weakened  by  long  imprisonment,  and  feel- 
ing the  keen  December  air  after  such  close  confinement* 
declined. 

"  No,"  he  replied.  "  But  if  you  will  not  take  it,  I  will 
tear  it." 

"Is  the  paper  written  in  your  handwriting?"  asked 
the  sheriff. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Sydney. 

After  that  the  sheriff  consented  to  take  the  paper,  and 
Sydney,  turning  to  Ducasse,  placed  in  his  hand  another 
paper  and  bade  him  farewell,  kindly,  but  with  no  effusion. 
The  valet  had  not  been  so  long  in  the  Republican's  service 
without  learning  to  control  his  emotional  French  nature. 
Lovingly  but  silently  he  received  his  master's  hat,  coat, 
and  doublet,  nor  allowed  the  tears  to  start  to  his  eyes 
until  Sydney  had  .turned  from  him  to  the  executioner. 

"  I  am  ready  to  die,  I  will  give  you  no  further  trouble," 
he  said,  and,  holding  out  his  hand,  proffered  the  execu- 
tioner three  guineas,  it  being  the  custom  in  those  days 
that  people  should  pay  for  the  trouble  they  gave  in  having 
their  heads  cut  off.  The  executioner  chinked  the  gold  in 
his  hand  with  a  discontented  air. 

"  I  looked  for  more  than  this  from  your  honor  ;  an  earl's 
son  might  have  come  down  with  more  than  a  paltry  three 
guineas. " 

A  slightly  sarcastic  expression  stole  over  Sydney's  face, 
but  he  turned  to  his  valet. 

"Joseph,  my  friend,  give  the  fellow  another  guinea  or 
two,"  he  said. 

Then,  while  Ducasse  produced  the  money  and  handed 
it  to  the  headsman,  Sydney  knelt  down  and  said  a  prayer 
"as  short  as  a  grace. "  When  he  uncovered  his  face  Mary 
noticed  that  it  bore  a  calm,  happy  smile,  and,  without 
one  other  word,  he  laid  his  head  on  the  block  and  awaited 
the  end. 

The  executioner  drew  near  with  raised  axe. 

"Are  you  ready,  sir?"  he  cried.  "Shall  you  rise 
again  ? " 

And  the  serene  smile  grew  brighter  as,  with  firm  voice, 
Sydney  replied,  ' '  Not  till  the  general  Resurrection.  Strike 
onl" 


Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 


CHAPTER   XXXIIL 

"LOVE  is  LORD  OF  ALL." 

Passion  grounded  upon  confession  of  excellence  outlives  hope  .  .  .  - 
For  that  same  love  for  which  God  created  and  beautified  the  world,  is 
the  only  means  for  us  to  return  unto  Him  who  is  the  fountain  of  our 
being ;  and  through  the  imperfections  of  our  natures  being  not  able  to 
see  or  comprehend  His  greatness  and  goodness,  otherwise  than  by  His 
works,  must  make  us  from  visible  things  to  raise  our  thoughts  up  to 
Him. 

ALGERNON  SYDNEY. 

GRIFFITH  had  been  moved  to  write  a  sermon  that  morn- 
ing, and  sat  at  the  further  end  of  the  room  with  his  ink-horn 
and  papers  ;  Bampfield  read  to  himself,  breaking-  off  occa- 
sionally to  stir  the  soup  which  was  simmering  over  the 
fire,  and  Hugo,  after  a  sleepless  night,  lay  idly  watching 
the  two  old  men,  though  his  thoughts  were  far  away.  Ah, 
had  he  but  been  free  he  might  have  been  with  his  friend 
to  the  last,  might  have  walked  with  him  from  his  prison, 
might  have  stood  beside  him  on  the  scaffold  !  He  could 
never  again  serve  him — nay,  he  had  scarcely  served  him 
at  all,  for  those  weary  months  in  the  prison  had  been 
wasted  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  and  now  hope  was 
over,  injustice  had  triumphed,  and  his  master  was  to  be 
put  to  death — to  be  judicially  murdered  1 

He  turned  his  face  from  the  light  in  silent  anguish,  in 
which  he  was,  nevertheless,  conscious  of  a  certain  relief 
in  the  quiet  of  the  cell,  a  certain  gratitude  to  his  two  com- 
panions for  leaving  him  alone.  But  all  at  once  the  quiet 
was  broken  and  his  sorrow  rudely  invaded.  An  ill-condt 
tioned  prisoner  named  Matthew,  whose  duty  it  was  to  go 
round  the  prison  distributing  the  daily  dole  of  bread  which 
was  allowed  to  certain  classes  of  prisoners,  flung  open  the 
door,  and,  having  set  down  his  loaf  on  the  wooden  bench 
which  served  for  table,  crossed  over  to  Hugo's  bed. 

"Well,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  horrible  grin,  as  he  rubbed 
his  grimy  hands,  "  Mr.  Sydney's  d d  head  is  off." 

Bampfield,  hastily  interposing,  tried  in  vain  to  check 
the  man,  but  he  went  on  unheeding. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  315 

YOff  at  one  blow,  they  say,  except  that  the  headsman 
%ad  to  finish  off  just  a  trifle  of  skin  with  his  knife." 

At  this,  however,  even  Griffith  was  roused,  and,  step- 
ping quickly  forward,  he  took  the  fellow  by  the  shoulders 
and  turned  him  out  of  the  cell. 

"Take  thy  vain  prating  hence!"  he  said,  with  right- 
eous indignation ;  then,  with  the  anxiety  of  a  doctor, 
turned  to  see  how  it  fared  with  his  patient. 

He  had  long  ago  ceased  to  judge  Hugo  harshly  ;  spite 
of  himself,  he  had  been  won,  and  was  now  fain  to  admit 
that  even  a  man  who  was  familiar  with  Whitehall,  a  man 
who  wore  lace  cravats  and  gay  colors,  might,  after  all,  be 
not  wholly  a  reprobate.  But  neither  Dr.  Griffith,  with  his 
good  intentions,  nor  Francis  Bampfield,  with  his  saintly 
love  and  sympathy,  could  do  much  for  their  fellow-prisoner 
now.  The  horrible  words  had  all  too  vividly  called  up 
before  him  the  ghastly  spectacle,  had  roused  all  those 
terrible  thoughts  of  death  which  are  most  repugnant  to 
human  nature.  Death  had  never  before  touched  him 
nearly ;  he  had  almost  died  himself,  it  is  true,  but  had  been 
so  worn  out  with  pain  of  mind  and  body  that  he  had  hailed 
death  as  a  deliverer.  He  could  not  do  this  in  the  case  of 
his  friend.  Death  was  to  him  only  the  destroyer,  the 
cruel,  merciless,  irresistible  destroyer.  The  brutal  words 
had  quenched  all  higher  thoughts,  had  brought  before 
him  only  the  material  view,  with  its  blood,  and  agony, 
and  sickening  details.  He  could  only  think  of  the  eyes 
that  had  smiled  on  him — thus  ;  the  lips  that  had  kissed 
him — thus  ;  the  hand  that  had  clasped  his — thus.  He 
broke  into  passionate  weeping,  into  an  agony  of  sobbing, 
most  dangerous  in  his  present  state,  as  both  the  watchers 
knew,  yet  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  could  say  one 
word  to  check  him. 

At  length,  to  their  inexpressible  relief,  the  door  was  un- 
locked, and  Scroop  admitted  Sir  William  Denham  and 
Mary.  Instinctively  the  three  men  drew  together,  talking 
in  low  voices  of  the  event  of  the  day,  and  leaving  to  the 
woman  the  difficult — the  almost  impossible — task  which 
had  baffled  them. 

She  sat  down  beside  the  bed,  making  him  aware  of  her 
presence,  but  without  speaking.  Then  after  a  while, 
when  she  thought  that,  from  sheer  exhaustion,  his  sobs 
were  less  violent,  and  that  he  might  listen  to  her  voice, 
she  said,  quietly  and  distinctly, 


316  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

"  It  was  not  like  Death,  Hugo,  it  was  like  a  triumph." 

With  a  strong  effort  he  controlled  himself,  and,  still 
with  averted  face,  he  asked, 

"  Who  told  you  of  it  ?  " 

"I  was  there,"  she  answered,  quietly;  "there  all  the 
time." 

"  You  were  there  !  "  he  exclaimed,  turning  towards  her, 
and,  in  his  astonishment,  forgetting  for  the  moment  all 
else: 

Was  he  shocked  ?  Mary  wondered.  Did  he  think  she 
had  done  an  unwomanly  thing  !  Did  he  shrink  from  a 
girl  who  could  voluntarily  go  to  see  an  execution  ?  A 
faint  color  came  into  her  face,  her  eyes  filled.  She  said 
falteringly,  and  as  if  in  excuse,  words  which  she  had  never 
meant  to  say. 

"  It  was  for  you  I  went." 

He  caught  her  hand  in  his  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 
But  he  did  not  thank  her  ;  she  was  glad  that  he  did  not 
in  words. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  after  a  silence — "  tell  me  all." 

"  There  can  have  been  very  little  pain,"  she  said,  allow- 
ing Hugo  still  to  hold  her  hand  in  his.  "  It  was  all  over 
so  quickly,  and  even  the  smile  on  his  face  was  there  after- 
wards. There  was  such  a  hush  all  through  the  crowd, 
and  not  one  soul  stirred  ;  all  the  folk  standing  by  weeping 
quietly,  while  Ducasse  and  the  other  servant  laid  his  body 
reverently  in  the  coffin,  and  then  bore  it  down  to  a  coach 
which  was  in  waiting  to  take  it  to  Penshurst.  He  wished 
much  to  be  buried  in  Penshurst,  they  say  ;  for  he  loved  the 
place  only  the  more  that  he  had  been  so  long  exiled  from 
it.  But,  Hugo,  I  cannot  think  of  him  as  lying  there  dead. 
I  think  of  him  as  he  looked  just  as  he  ascended  the  scaf- 
fold. When  he  first  came  in  sight,  looking  so  indifferent, 
so  composed,  I  thought  how  like  he  must  be  to  his  favor- 
ite hero,  Marcus  Brutus.  But  just  as  he  mounted  the  stairs 
he  paused  and  looked  up  with  a  look  on  his  face  that  I 
can  never  describe  to  you — a  look  I  never  saw  on  mortal 
face  before,  and  it  made  me  understand  the  words  we  sing 
in  church, — 

'  The  noble  army  of  martyrs  praise  Thee.' " 

She  paused,  thinking  that  the  rest  had  perhaps  better 
wait  for  some  other  time.  Hugo  obediently  took  the  wine 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  317 

which  she  held  to  his  lips,  but  looked  up  presently  with 
an  eager  entreaty. 

"Talk  on,"  he  said,  pleadingly.  "  Your  voice  comforts 
me." 

"Ducasse  caught  sight  of  me  afterwards,"  said  Mary, 
yielding  to  his  entreaty.  "And  he  came  and  spoke  to 
me,  poor  fellow.  Almost  the  last  thing  I  had  seen  Col- 
onel Sydney  do  before  he  laid  aside  his  hat  and  doublet 
was  to  place  a  paper  in  his  man's  hand  and  speak  a  few 
words  to  him,  which  I  could  not  hear.  And  that  paper, 
Hugo,  was  for  you — Ducasse  gave  it  me." 

She  took  from  her  pocket  a  letter,  directed  to  Hugo  in 
Sydney's  large,  bold  handwriting.  Hugo  eagerly  unfolded 
it,  but  the  moment  he  tried  to  read  his  head  swam,  and 
he  was  forced  to  ask  Mary  to  read  it  to  him.  The  letter 
ran  as  follows  : — 

"  MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

"  I  had  well-nigh  said  my  son,  seeing  that  of 
late  you  have  been  to  me  as  son  to  father.  I  have  but  a 
short  time  left  to  me  in  this  world,  and  have  many  matters 
to  order  and  arrange,  but  you  shall  stand  second  to  none, 
and  I  will  write  you  while  yet  time  remains  to  me.  And 
first,  to  thank  you  for  your  loving  silence,  for  your  firm 
constancy.  I  rejoice  that  your  life  is  like  to  be  spared, 
and  that  I  can  hope  and  pray — as  I  do  most  fervently — 
that  you  may  be  spared  to  work  for  the  old  cause  when  I 
am  no  more.  You  will  have  heard  of  my  trial  ere  this. 
The  Lord  Chief  Justice  is  said  to  have  bragged  unto  the 
King  that  no  man  in  his  place  has  ever  rendered  unto  any 
King  of  England  such  services  as  he  had  done  in  procur- 
ing my  death.  In  truth,  he  overruled  eight  or  ten  very 
important  points  of  law,  and  decided  them  without  hear- 
ing, whereby  the  law  itself  was  made  a  snare  which  no 
man  could  avoid,  nor  have  any  security  for  his  life  or  for- 
tune, if  one  vile  wretch  could  be  found  to  swear  against 
him  such  circumstances  as  he  required.  God  only  knows 
what  will  be  the  issue  of  the  like  practice  in  these  our 
days.  Perhaps  He  will  in  mercy  speedily  vi.-it  His  afflicted 
people.  I  die  in  the  faith  that  He  will  tlo  it,  though  I 
know  not  the  time  or  ways. 

"I  believe  that  the  people  of  God  in  England  have,  in 
these  late  years,  generally  grown  faint.  Some,  through 
fear,  have  deflected  from  the  integrity  of  their  principles, 


318  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

some  have  too  deeply  plunged  themselves  in  worldly 
cares,  and,  so  they  might  enjoy  their  trades  and  wealth, 
have  less  regarded  the  treasure  that  is  laid  up  in  heaven. 
But  I  think  there  are  very  many  who  have  kept  their 
garments  unspotted  ;  and  I  hope  that  God  will  deliver 
them  and  the  nation  for  their  sakes.  God  will  not  suffer 
this  land,  where  the  Gospel  hath  of  late  flourished  more 
than  in  any  part  of  the  world,  to  become  a  slave  of  the 
world ;  He  will  not  suffer  it  to  be  made  a  land  of  graven 
images.  He  will  stir  up  witnesses  of  the  Truth,  and,  in 
His  own  time,  spirit  His  people  to  stand  up  for  His  cause, 
and  deliver  them.  I  lived  in  this  belief,  and  am  now 
about  to  die  in  it.  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  lives  ;  and, 
as  He  hath  in  a  great  measure  upheld  me  in  the  day  of 
my  calamity,  hope  that  He  will  still  uphold  me  by  His 
Spirit  in  this  last  moment,  and  give  me  grace  to  glorify 
Him  in  my  death. 

"For  in  truth,  Hugo,  I  hold  it  a  great  honor  that  God 
hath  permitted  me  to  be  singled  out  as  a  witness  of  His 
truth,  and  even  by  the  confession  of  my  opposers  for  that 
good  old  cause  in  which  I  was  from  my  youth  engaged, 
and  for  which  God  hath  often  and  wonderfully  declared 
Himself. 

"  Farewell,  dear  lad  ;  keep  a  brave  heart  in  your  prison, 
make  the  spirit  triumph  over  the  flesh,  and  may  God  grant 
you  at  length  your  liberty,  that  you  may  the  better  serve 
Him.  Whatever  betide — whether  in  prison  or  at  large — 
keep  the  words  of  our  motto  graven  on  your  heart, 
?sC9»%ctus  amor  patriae  dat  animum." 

"  Your  most  faithful  friend, 

AL.  SYDNEY." 

When  the  letter  was  ended  Mary  once  more  told  him 
everything  that  had  passed  that  morning,  describing  all 
simply  and  truthfully,  so  that  he  knew  she  kept  nothing 
back  from  him,  and  was  satisfied.  The  violence  of  his 
grief  was  over  ;  he  was  quite  calm  now,  only  unspeak- 
ably weary  and  sad. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  just  before  Mary  left  him,  "  I,  too, 
may  follow  ere  long.  The  scaffold  is  not  the  only  way 
to  death." 

"  You  forget,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice — "  you  forget 
one  who  needs  you,  one  who  wearier  for  your  cominf. 
Do  not  speak  of  dying  ;  you  must  live  for  Joyce." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  319 

'-You  do  not  understand,"  he  said.  " That  is  all  over. 
I  have  bid  her  to  be  free  and  to  think  of  me  no  more. 
What  right  have  I  to  blight  her  life — I,  who  must  live  for- 
ever in  this  hellish  Newgate  1  " 

She  would  have  replied,  but  at  that  moment  Sir  William 
drew  near. 

"My  dear,  "he  said  in  his  kindly  voice,  "my  dear,  I 
do  not  wish  to  rob  Hugo  of  his  nurse,  but  you  look  to  me 
overwrought  and  weary ;  I  think  you  had  better  come 
home. " 

Hugo  looked  up  ;  even  his  troubles  had  not  made  him 
very  observant ;  now,  for  the  first  time,  he  looked  search- 
ingly  in  Mary's  face.  Her  brilliant  color  had  faded,  there 
were  dark  shadows  below  her  eyes,  effort  was  written 
upon  her  once  serene  brow,  and  exhaustion  upon  her  pale 
lips.  As  Sir  William  spoke  her  head  drooped  a  little,  but 
she  made  no  remonstrance. 

"God  bless  you  for  what  you  have  done  !  "  cried  Hugo, 
and  again  he  caught  her  hand  in  his  ;  then,  turning  to  Sir 
William,  ' '  She  is  the  best  of  comforters — the  best !  " 

Sir  William  was  quite  right.  Mary  was  both  over- 
wrought and  exhausted.  She  was  glad  to  go  straight  to 
bed  on  reaching  home,  and  to  escape  any  further  conver- 
sation about  Sydney's  death  or  Hugo's  convalescence. 
But  darkness  and  solitude  brought  her  no  rest,  but  instead 
the  most  horrible  temptation  of  her  whole  life.  Hugo  no 
longer  considered  himself  betrothed  to  Joyce  Wharncliffe  ; 
he  had  told  her  so  with  his  own  lips — had  told  her  that 
he  would  on  no  acconnt  hold  Joyce  to  a  promise  which 
would  blight  her  life.  And  then,  just  after  that,  he  had 
held  her  hand  in  his  with  a  touch  which  yet  lingered 
there,  and  had  called  her  the  best  of  comforters.  Might 
she  not  win  his  love  ?  It  would  not  blight  her  life  to  love 
him,  though  he  were  imprisoned  all  his  days  ;  rather  to 
be  loved  by  him,  and  confessedly  to  love  him,  would  be 
heaven  itself. 

And  then  her  uncle's  words  returned  to  her — the  words 
which  had  caused  her  such  burning  blushes  as  they  drove 
that  first  night  to  the  prison — '*  I  would  thou  hadst  been 
betrothed  to  him,  then  there  could  have  been  no  handle 
for  scandalmongers  in  this  visit."  She  wished  he  had 
never  spoken  those  words,  wished  that  they  had  not 
called  up  for  her  a  double  vision  of  sweet,  sheltered,  pro- 
tected peace,  and  of  solitary,  hard  exposure  to  all  the  bitter 


320 


IN1  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 


blasts  which  in  this  evil  world  were  like  to  blow  on  her. 
And  to  love  him  in  his  dreary  imprisonment,  to  love  him 
even  without  any  hope  but  that  of  bringing  a  ray  of  com- 
fort to  him  in  that  wretched  cell,  what  more  could  heart 
of  woman  crave  ? 

No  one  who  truly  loved  him  could  think  otherwise. 
What !  were  mere  prison  walls  to  blight  love  ?  A  fig  for 
such  love  as  that !  True  love  would  scorn  so  trumpery 
a  separation,  would  gladly  wait  through  years  upon  years 
with  no  other  privilege  than  that  of  loving  and  being 
loved. 

"And  thus  would  Joyce  speak, "said  a  voice  in  her 
heart. 

That  voice  made  her  shudder,  it  was  the  conscience  or 
consciousness  of  right  once  more  claiming  its  dominion 
over  her ;  she  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears  passionately 
sobbing  in  the  darkness  words  which  until  now  had  never 
escaped  her  lips, — "I  love  him  !  I  love  him  !  My  God, 
I  love  him  !  " 

The  reaction  from  the  horrors  of  the  morning,  the  ex- 
haustion which  naturally  followed  such  a  strain,  the  recol- 
lection of  Hugo's  words,  the  mingled  weariness  and  ex- 
citement, all  were  against  her.  Yet  because  her  love 
was  pure,  because  her  love  was  true  she  was  saved.  She 
did  in  very  truth  love  Hugo,  therefore  the  thought  of  his 
happiness  was  ever  paramount,  her  own  altogether  sec- 
ondary. He  loved  Joyce  Wharncliffe,  and  Joyce  loved 
him — then  she  would  move  heaven  and  earth  to  end  their 
sorrow  and  separatioii,  she  would  keep  Hugo  from  sink- 
ing into  that  dreary  acquiescence  with  a  cruel  fate,  an 
acquiescence  to  which  his  nature  would  inevitably  incline. 
Oh,  yes !  she  would  serve  them — would  serve  them. 
And  with  that  her  tears  flowed  more  gently — she  even 
smiled  through  them,  and  her  old  visions  of  Joyce  came 
back  to  her,  and  she  chid  herself  for  having  allowed  them 
to  fade. 

The  next  day  things  favored  her  plans.  Griffith  went 
out  to  walk  in  the  paved  passage  to  which  they  were  al- 
lowed access,  and  Francis  Bampfield,  who  for  some  time 
past  had  been  in  failing  health,  lay  asleep  on  his  bed, 
leaving  her  to  what  was  practically  a  ttte-h-tcte  with  Hugo. 

"Will  you  give  me  leave  to  speak  to  you  plainly 
Hugo?  "  she  asked  ;  "as  old  friend,  sister,  mentor?  " 

He  looked  up  languidly.     She  resumed, 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  321 

"•  Had  I  known  what  your  letter  to  Mistress  Wharn- 
cliffe  contained  I  think  I  should  have  refused  to  give  it  to 
the  post." 

"  Do  not  speak  of  it,"  he  said,  turning  away  with  a  ges- 
ture of  pain.  ' '  'Twas  hard  enough  to  do,  but  'tis  done 
now.  Did  I  not  tell  you  yesternight  that  I  would  suffer 
anything  rather  than  blight  her  life." 

"That  is  how  you  men-folk  talk,"  said  Mary,  quickly. 
"But  believe  me,  Hugo,  you  are  mistaken.  Lives  are 
not  so  easily  blighted.  Trust  me,  we  women  are  stronger 
than  you  think  for,  ay,  and  braver  and  more  patient. 
Mistress  Wharncliffe  loves  you.  Do  you  believe  that  any 
woman  who  truly  loves  a  man  would  not  rather  be  a 
maid  all  her  life  for  love  of  him,  than  be  what  you  call 
free.  Free  !  in  good  sooth  I  know  not  what  you  mean  by 
free !  Would  you  so  wrong  her  as  to  think  that,  while 
you  for  her  father's  sake  lie  here  in  jail  she  would  go 
wed  some  other?  You  wrong  our  sex  an  you  can  dream 
of  such  a  thing." 

Hugo  was  silent ;  this  was  altogether  a  new  view  of 
the  case,  a  view  which  certainly  would  never  have  oc- 
curred to  him.  Yet  it  had  a  sound  of  truth  in  it.  But 
again  the  thought  of  the  years  of  suspense  and  waiting 
and  sorrow  for  Joyce  rose  before  him.  He  turned  away 
with  a  groan. 

"  I  would  I  had  never  told  her  of  my  love." 

Mary  was  silent  for  a  minute.  When  she  could  trust 
herself  to  speak  she  said,  in  a  low  voice, 

"I  don't  know  Mistress  Wharncliffe,  yet  I  think  that 
she  would  never  agree  to  such  a  sentence  as  that.  Have 
you  not  given  her  the  right  openly,  confessedly,  to  love 
you  ?  Have  you  not  given  her  the  best  gift  a  man  can 
give  ?  And  as  the  thought  of  her  love  brings  comfort  to 
you  in  this  gruesome  jail,  so  doth  your  love  bring  comfort 
to  her  at  Mondisfield." 

"I  do  not  see  it,"  he  groaned,  "I  can  do  naught  for 
her,  naught !  My  love  comfort  her,  forsooth !  How 
should  it  comfort  her  ? " 

Her  eyes  swam  with  tears  which  would  no  longer  be 
restrained.  Hastily  rising,  she  made  a  pretence  of  stir- 
ring the  sea-coal  fire. 

"You  foolish  lad!  "she  exclaimed,  taking  good  care 
not  to  turn  hes  face  towards  him  as  she  spoke,  "  you 
foolish  lad  t  Why,  to  know  that  she  has  your  lore  wiU 
as 


$2*  Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

be  comfort  enow.  To  know  that  you  live  for  her,  k«ep 
brave  and  patient  for  her,  to  know  that  you  think  of  her, 
dream  of  her,  pray  for  her,  hope  for  her.  To  know  that 
by  your  silence  you  protect  her,  by  your  noble  suffering 
shield  her,  by  your  heart's  deep  love  delight  to  do  all  this 
— what  more  could  woman  desire  ?  Is  not  that  comfort  ? 
Would  barren,  painless  peace  without  you  have  been 
better?  " 

He  was  silent.     Mary  returned  to  her  former  place. 

"There,  you  gave  me  leave  to  play  the  scold, "she  saidv 
smiling.  "And  now  I  will  forbear;  nay,  I  will  confess 
what  I  know  to  be  the  truth,  that  where  you  have  one 
fault,  I  have  a  hundred." 

"One!"  said  Hugo,  with  a  look  of  amueemenL 
"Which?" 

"You  acquiesce  too  readily  in  suffering,  you  patiently 
endure  when  you  ought  to  resist,  you  are  resigned  where 
you  ought  to  hope  against  hope.  Make  me  a  present  of 
your  quiet  resignation,  Hugo  ;  for,  in  truth,  I  could  very 
well  do  with  it.  Call  back  the  goddess  of  Hope,  and  bid 
her  drive  away  your  despondency,  and  throw  her  rainbow 
arch  over  the  future  you  paint  so  black." 

"  For  what  would  you  have  me  hope  ? " 

"  For  freedom — for  Joyce  !  " 

"I  have  no  reasonable  ground  to  look  for  aught  but 
life-long  imprisonment." 

"Perhaps  not.  I  am  only  a  woman  and  ignorant. 
But  look  you,  kings  have  been  know  n  to  relent.  More- 
over, prisoners  have  often  been  pardoned  by  succeeding 
monarchs,  and  the  King  and  the  Duke  of  York  are  both 
of  them  past  middle-age,  while  you  are  but  twenty.  Also," 
— she  lowered  her  voice  to  a  whisper —  ' '  prisoners  some- 
times escape.  There,  I  am  weary  ;  scolding  is  hard  work. 
And,  since  Thomas  is  waiting  for  me,  I  will  go  home. 
Farewell.  Think  of  what  I  have  said." 

He  did  think.  What  else  was  there  left  for  him  to  do  ? 
He  escaped  from  bodily  and  mental  pain,  and  once  more 
allowed  tender  thoughts  of  the  past,  eager  hopes  for  the 
future  to  cheer  his  present  dreariness.  His  happy,  free  life 
returned  to  him  once  more — he  dared  to  live  through  that 
magic  time,  the  last  days  of  his  youth,  as  it  had  proved, 
from  the  October  when  he  had  first  seen  Joyce  to  the  mid- 
summer when  all  had  been  .ended  in  Newgate.  Tho»e 
golden  months  when  he  had  hoped  with  a  delicious,  vague 


Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  333 

.Hope,  had  feared  with  a  half  hopeful,  half  happy  fear. 
Once  more  he  talked  with  the  little  Duchess  of  Grafton, 
once  more  he  half  confessed  to  Mary  his  hopes  and  fears 
with  regard  to  Joyce,  once  more  he  roamed  through  the 
stately  old  rooms  of  Penshurst,  ever  in  company  with  his 
master  and  friend,  once  more  he  was  at  Mondisfield  tell- 
ing Joyce  of  his  love  in  the  north  parlor.  And  it  was  no 
longer  all  pain  that  looking  back,  for  Mary's  words  had 
done  their  work. 

For  her  there  had  been  tears  and  grief,  but  all  the  time 
the  sun  of  love  shining  ;  and  thus  she  had  brought  hope's 
rainbow  into  tlv»  **S  of  another. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE   DUCHESS   OF  GRAFTON. 

In  all  thy  need  be  them  possest 
Still  witn  a  well-prepared  breast ; 
>Tor  let  the  shackles  make  thee  sad ; 
Thou  canst  but  have  what  others  had. 
And  this  for  comfort  thou  must  know : 
Time?  that  are  ill  won't  still  be  so; 
Clouds  will  not  ever  pour  down  rain, 
A  sullen  day  will  clear  again ; 
First  peals  of  thunder  we  must  hear, 
Then  lutes  and  harps  shall  strike  the  ear. 

HERRICK. 

THAT  afternoon  Mary  went  to  visit  the  little  duchess, 
iirho,  married  in  her  babyhood,  was  now,  at  the  age  of 
bixteen,  a  mother.  The  grand  bed-chamber,  with  its  mag- 
nificent fittings  and  furnishings,  was  a  strange  contrast  to 
the  Newgate  cell  where  lay  her  other  friend,  and  the  con- 
trast struck  Mary  somewhat  painfully  as  she  was  ushered 
in  by  a  pompous  old  nurse  ;  but,  when  the  silken  bed- 
curtains  were  drawn  back,  she  forgot  the  contrast  in  the 
pleasure  of  once  more  seeing  her  friend 

The  little  Duchess  of  Grafton  looked  sweeter  than  ever 
in  her  lying-in  cap  and  dainty,  lace-trimmed  robe  ;  she  was 
pale  as  a  lily,  but  seemed  bright  and  well,  and  with  already 
the  soft  tender  light  of  maternity  in  her  eyes.  The  tiny, 


3*4 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 


red-faced  baby  was  nestled  close  to  her ;  she  kept  strok« 
ing  his  dark,  downy  head  as  she  talked. 

"  I  have  been  looking  for  you  this  age,  Mary  !  "  she  ex- 
claimed. "  Do  you  know  that  I  began  to  receive  visitors 
on  the  twenty-sixth  of  last  month  ?  And  you,  my  closest 
friend,  put  me  off  with  the  8th  of  December." 

"  I  would  have  come,"  said  Mary,  "  but  indeed  my  aunt 
advised  not,  and  said  you  would  be  overdone  with  see- 
ing so  many.  And,  moreover,  we  have  had  much  to  oc- 
cupy us  of  late.  Mr.  Evelyn  told  me  he  had  seen  you  and 
the  babe.  What  a  bonny  wee  man  he  is." 

"  Is  he  not  ?"  said  the  little  mother,  raising  herself  on 
her  elbow  that  she  might  better  display  her  first-born. 
"Yes,  Mr.  Evelyn  saw  him  the  first  of  all,  and  is  so  much  in 
love  that  he  is  coming  again  to-day.  I  hear  he  has  taken 
a  house  in  London  for  the  winter.  That  is  good  hear- 
ing." 

"Yes,  he  has  taken  a  house  inVilliers  Street,  and  so  is 
a  near  neighbor.  He  is  come  chiefly  the  better  to  educate 
his  daughters.  Mr.  Evelyn  thinks  much  of  education." 

"  Ay, "  said  the  little  duchess,  laughing  ;  "  he  and  I  have 
already  discussed  my  babe's  future.  Have  we  not,  my 
bonny  Charlie?" 

"  Is  he  to  be  Charles  ?" 

"  After  his  grandfather.  But  you  are  not  to  be  like  His 
Majesty,  for  all  that,  my  son.  No,  no,  we  know  better,  you 
and  I.  There !  take  .him  Mary,  before  I  talk  any  more 
treason  to  him.  You  cannot  see  him  under  this  dark 
canopy." 

Mary  sat  nursing  the  babe,  and  ere  long  in  came  the 
old  nurse  with  the  caudle-cup  and  the  cake-basket. 

"  There,  now  you  must  do  your  duty,"  said  the  little 
duchess,  laughing.  ' '  For  my  part,  I  affect  the  cake,  but 
not  the  caudle ;  and  that  tyrant  nurse  will  never  let  me 
have  all  I  should  like.  Your  mother  is  a  gourmande,  my 
wee  Charlie,  an  outrageous  gourmande.  She  must  mend 
her  ways  ere  you  come  to  years  of  discretion." 

"  The  caudle  is  good  for  your  grace,"  said  the  old  nurse, 
sententiously.  "  Good  wine,  good  bread,  good  spices 
and  sugar  will  hearten  up  your  grace,  and  bring  the  color 
back  to  your  cheeks.  But  cakes,  there  be  naught  that  is 
wholesome  in  cakes. 

"Good  flour,  good  spices  and  sugar,"  retorted  the  duch- 
ess, laughing.  "  But  there,  'tis  ever  the  same,  is  i 


Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  325 

Mary  ?  What  we  best  like  that  is  not  for  our  good ;  what 
we  shrink  from  that  is  ever  the  one  thing  needful.  Who 
would  have  thought  so  much  philosophy  was  to  be  found 
in  my  old  nurse,  with  her  cakes  and  caudle  !  And  now," 
said  the  duchess,  growing  grave  once  more,  as  the  nurse 
withdrew  from  the  apartment,  "  And  now,  Mary,  tell  me 
of  all  that  hath  happened.  Do  not  fear.  The  rumor  of 
all  the  horrors  hath  penetrated  even  this  quiet  room.  Oh, 
never  think  I  have  forgot  you  all,  that  I  have  been  selfish 
and  heedless  in  this  luxury  of  illness.  I  have  prayed 
for  you,  and  for  them  ;  only  for  the  sake  of  my  babe, 
I  dared  not  hear  too  much,  dared  not  ask  too  many 
questions." 

"  Dear,  do  not  ask  them  now,"  said  Mary,  quietly. 
"  Of  what  avail  is  it  that  you  should  know  what  could 
only  make  you  sorrowful  ? " 

"  They  tok!  me,  or  rather  I  heard  of  Colonel  Sydney's 
death.  I  knew  it  was  to  be  the  seventh.  Some  visitor  men- 
tioned it  to  my  father,  forgetting  perchance  that  I  lay  be- 
hind these  curtains,  and  might  possibly  care  that  a  brave 
man  was  to  be  done  to  death.  Yet  I  am  glad  too  that  I 
knew ;  for,  as  the  hour  drew  near,  I  lay  here  and  prayed 
for  him.  Tell,  me,  how  died  he?  " 

"  Like  one  of  the  noble  army  of  martyrs,"  said  Mary. 

"  And  Hugo  Wharncliffe  yet  lives  ? " 

"He  yet  lives,  and  is  like  to  live.'' 

"Oh,  it  is  terrible  to  me  to  think  of  him,"  said  the  little 
duchess  keeping  back  her  tears  with  difficulty.  "  It 
seems  to  me  worse  than  Colonel  Sydney's  case,  for  he  at 
least  is  at  rest,  and  his  pain  must  have  been  sharp  and 
short,  but  the  other — such  a  long  torture  ;  and  to  be  made 
thus  a  public  spectacle  !  When  I  think  of  him  as  he  was 
at  Whitehall  but  a  few  months  since — when  I  remember 
him  at  the  Gray's  Inn  masque  so  bravely  clad,  so  happy, 
I  could  weep  my  heart  out." 

"  They  say  the  King  would  fain  have  saved  him,"  said 
Mary.  ' '  Do  you  think  he  would  ever  be  induced  to  set  him 
at  liberty  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell,  he  changes  so ;  he  is  not  what  he  once 
was,  kind  and  gracious,  now  he  is  ofttimes  heavy  and 
sullen,  no  one  knows  how  to  take  him." 

"  They  say  he  is  ill,  that  this  humor  in  his  leg  affects 
him  more  than  was  at  first  thought  for.  But  you,  he  13 
fond  of  you,  he  might  hearken  to  you." 


526  Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

"What!  you  think  I  might  plead  for  Mr.  Wharncliffe? 
I  would  do  so  most  gladly.  Oh  !  do  you  really  think  he 
would  hearken  to  me  ?  Perhaps  now — now  that  I  have 
brought  him  a  grandson  and  a  namesake.  Oh,  little  son.' 
we  will  put  it  all  upon  you  !  You  shall  rescue  Mr 
Wharncliffe  from  Newgate !  You  shall  be  a  deliveret 
while  yet  in  swaddling-clothes.  And  here  in  good  time 
comes  Mr.  Evelyn.  We  will  consult  with  him." 

There  entered  an  elderly  man,  quietly  but  richly  dressed 
in  dark  purple ;  his  face  was  delightful,  the  brow  high  and 
intellectual,  the  features  refined,  the  expression  thought- 
ful but  not  abstracted,  the  eyes  kind  and  gentle,  yet 
keenly  observant.  The  little  duchess  had  chosen  her 
adviser  well.  Mr.  Evelyn  was  before  all  things  a  man  to 
be  consulted.  He  thought  well  of  their  plan,  and  spoke 
hopefully  of  Hugo'o  release. 

"They  tell  me  young  Mr.  Wharncliffe  was  intimate 
with  Colonel  Sydney,  and  that  this  had  much  to  do  with 
the  severity  of  his  sentence. " 

"Yes,"  said  Mary.  "He  knew  Mr.  Sydney  well,  and 
reverenced  him  greatly.  He  is  half  heart-broken  now, 
for,  like  all  the  rest  of  the  world  the  sentence  was  a  sur- 
prise to  him." 

" Sir  George  Jeffreys  hath  much  to  answer  for,"  said 
Mr.  Evelyn,  gravely.  "It  was  an  ill  day  for  England 
when  he  was  promoted.  But  a  day  or  two  since  I  met 
with  him  at  a  wedding — the  wedding  of  jolly  Mrs.  Castle, 
of  whom  no  doubt  you  have  heard." 

"What,  the  lady  that  hath  had  five  husbands?  Was 
Sir  George  Jeffreys  there  ?  " 

"Ay,  he  was  there,  and  the  Lord  Mayor  and  the 
sheriff  too,  besides  many  aldermen  and  persons  of  quality. 
Jeffreys  danced  with  the  bride  and  spent  the  night  till 
eleven  of  the  clock  drinking  healths,  taking  tobacco,  and 
talking,  to  my  mind,  much  beneath  the  gravity  of  a  judge, 
who  but  a  day  or  two  before  condemned  Mr.  Algernon 
Sydney.", 

Mary  treasured  this  up  to  tell  Hugo,  who,  in  his  bitter- 
ness of  soul,  was  beginning  to  think  that  justice  and 
mercy  were  qualities  which  existed  in  no  other  Tory  save 
Sir  William  Denham.  Mr.  Evelyn  was  no  partisan,  he 
was  too  broad-minded,  too  gentle  for  that,  but  he  was 
emphatically  a  Tory,  refined,  cultured,  scientific,  and,  in 
so  far  as  science  went,  progressive  ;  but  in  political  mat- 


AV  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  327 

ters  he  had  always  been,  and  always  would  be,   opposed 
to  all  change. 

"  You  think  he  was  unjustly  condemned?"  asked  the 

little  duchess,  wistfully. 

"Most  assuredly,"  said  Mr.  Evelyn.  "For  he  was 
condemned  on  the  single  witness  of  that  monster  of  a 
man,  Lord  Howard  of  Escrick,  and  some  sheets  of  paper 
taken  in  Mr.  Sydney's  study,  pretended  to  be  written  by 
him  but  not  fully  proved,  nor  the  time  when,  but  appear- 
ing to  have  been  written  before  his  Majesty's  restoration, 
and  thus  pardoned  by  the  Act  of  Oblivion." 

"I  suppose  every  one  knows  that  Mr.  Sydney  was 
averse  to  government  by  a  king,"  said  Mary,  wishing  to 
elicit  more  from  Mr.  Evelyn. 

"  Quite  true,  and  he  had  been  an  inveterate  enemy 
to  our  blessed  martyr ;  nathless,  he  had  hard  measure. 
Sydney  was  a  man  of  great  courage,  great  sense,  great 
parts.  He  showed  that  both  at  his  trial  and  his  death. 
Methought  there  was  something  very  fine  in  the  way  he 
told  the  people  he  came  not  there  to  talk  but  to  die. 
However,  we  must  not  discourse  of  executions  in  this 
room,  'tis  not  fitting.  Train  up  your  son  to  be  loyal  to 
his  sovereign,  my  dear  little  friend,  and  pray  God  to  keep 
him  from  being  involved  in  wild  schemes  for  reform." 

"I  am  scheming  already  to  make  him  a  reformer  or 
rather  a  deliverer,"  said  the  duchess,  laughing.  "You 
are  to  fascinate  his  Majesty  at  your  christening,  my  son, 
and  then  I  will  plead  with  him  for  young  Mr.  Wharn- 
cliffe." 

But  alas,  the  pleading  was  of  no  avail.  The  little  duch- 
ess did  her  best,  but  she  failed  completely.  The  King 
protested  that  he  had  done  all  he  could  for  Mr.  Hugo 
Wharn cliff e,  that  he  had  obstinately  rejected  all  offers  of 
help,  and  that  now  he  must  be  left  to  his  fate.  It  would  be 
impossible  for  the  King  to  pardon  him  after  certain  words 
that  had  passed  between  them  at  their  last  interview. 

"  Would  you  have  me  deal  more  leniently  with  him 
than  with  my  son  ? "  he  asked,  his  brow  darkening.  "  No, 
no,  my  love,  I  am  sorry  to  refuse  you  aught  on  this  gala 
day,  but  recall  to  mind  the  French  proverb  Comme  onfait 
son  lit  on  se  couche.  I  offered  Hugo  Wharncliffe  a  post 
at  Whitehall,  he  chose  to  stay  in  Newgate.  What  would 
you  then  ?  Am  I  to  blame  ? " 

So  Hugo  stayed  in  Newgate,  and,  thanks  to  the  care 


328  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

and  solicitude  of  the  Denhams,  slowly  recovered  his 
health  and  spirits.  He  was  after  all  young  and  full  of  life  ; 
even  the  cruel  cold  which  now  set  in  did  not  retard  his 
convalescence — he  suffered  severely  from  it,  but  it'  did 
him  little  harm.  With  Francis  Bampfield  it  was  other- 
wise. As  the  younger  man  grew  stronger,  the  elder  grew 
weaker.  It  was  quite  right,  he  said,  quite  natural,  he 
had  fought  a  good  fight,  and  had  well-nigh  finished  his 
course. 

Rupert  Denham  had  felt  himself  to  be  out  of  place  dur- 
ing Hugo's  illness,  and  after  that  first  night  had  not  re- 
turned to  Newgate,  but  had  left  his  friend  to  the  care  of 
Sir  William,  Mary,  and  old  Jeremiah.  Illness  and  sorrow 
were  so  foreign  to  his  nature  that  perhaps  he  did  well  to 
keep  aloof;  but  when  Hugo  recovered  he  made  a  point 
of  going  often  to  the  prison  and  doing  his  best  to  enliven 
him.  His  first  visit  was  in  January,  and  Scroop,  always 
pleased  to  usher  in  visitors  to  see  the  one  prisoner  whose 
welfare  he  had  at  heart,  grinned  broadly  as  he  showed 
into  the  dreary-looking  cell  this  incongruous  gallant  in 
his  feathers  and  furbelows.  Griffith  was  aghast  at  his 
swaggering  gait  and  jovial,  hearty  manner. 

He  embraced  his  friend  with  much  affection  and  many 
oaths  ;  then,  turning  to  the  two  old  men,  he  bowed 
courteously. 

"Good-morrow,  Mr.  Bampfield;  good-morrow,  good 
Dr.  Griffith  ;  I  hope  I  see  you  both  well.  Why,  by  the 
powers  !  you  have  made  another  man  of  my  friend  here. 
Hugo,  the  gods  must  have  given  you  the  hide  of  a  rhino- 
ceros, and  the  strength  of  a  Hercules,  to  have  recovered 
so  speedily.  Here,  jailer  !  bring  us  some  wine,  we  must 
drink  to  my  good  friend's  health.  They  tell  me  you  have 
a  full  cellar  in  this  grim  hole,  and  that  Bacchus  smiles 
kindly  on  the  wan  prisoner  if  he  doth  but  show  him  the 
glint  of  gold.  Come,  bring  us  your  best." 

Griffith,  aghast  at  this  unseemly  merriment,  asked  leave 
of  Scroop  to  go  forth  for  his  daily  exercise,  and  Hugo, 
much  relieved  to  see  him  depart,  gave  himself  up  to  the 
enjoyment  of  his  friend's  visit,  only  bidding  him  moderate 
his  noise  lest  Bampfield  should  be  disturbed. 

"Nay,"  said  the  old  man,  from  the  other  side  of  the 
hearth,  "nay,  you  disturb  me  not.  Enjoy  your  friend, 
my  lad,  and  do  not  trouble  about  me. " 

"A  jolly  old  sinner,  worth  ten  of  the  other  with  his 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  329 

vinegar  face ! "  exclaimed  Rupert,  in  an  audible  aside. 
"Sir,  we  drink  to  your  health.  Long  life  and  prosperity 
to  Mr.  Francis  Bampfield." 

"  I  thank  you  for  the  toast,  gentlemen,"  said  Bampfield, 
smiling  kindly  on  them.  "  Twas  courteously  meant. 
Yet  I  do  not  desire  either  the  one  or  the  other.  I  am  son- 
tent  to  be  without  what  men  call  prosperity,  preferring  to 
be  the  Lord's  free  prisoner.  'And  as  to  long  life,  why, 
your  friend  will  tell  you  it  is  scarce  to  be  wished  for  in  this 
cell." 

"In  truth  we  have  suffered  much  since  this  cold,"  said 
Hugo.  "Scroop  tells  me  prisoners  die  by  scores  in  the 
other  wards.  We  are  lapped  in  luxury  here,  yet  the 
cold  is  so  intense  that  our  breath  freezes  on  the  pillow, 
and  we  almost  forget  what  warmth  means." 

"  Ah  !  if  you  were  but  free,  what  times  we  would 
have  !  "  exclaimed  Denham,  with  a  sigh.  "The  Thames 
is  frozen — did  they  tell  you  ?  A  fresh  town  is  springing 
up  in  mid-river,  streets  of  booths,  folks  walking  or  skating 
in  all  parts,  coaches  plying  up  and  down  from  West- 
minster to  the  Temple,  and  all  London  turned  out  to  see 
the  fun.  It  is  a  carnival,  I  tell  you  !  By  St.  Kit,  I  would 
give  the  world  for  you  to  be  there  to  see  !  Oxen  roasted 
whole,  bull-baiting,  horse-races,  puppet-plays,  and  gew- 
gaws and  vendors  enough  for  a  Bartholomew  fair.  See 
here,  I  had  my  name  printed  right  in  mid-stream,  for  some 
wily  craftsman  hath  set  up  a  printing-press  there,  which 
takes  mighty  well  and  brings  in  much  custom." 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  neatly-printed  card,  with  a 
treble  border,  and  the  words  : 

"Mr.  Rupert  Denham, 

Printed  on  the  River  of  Thames  being  frozen, 

In  the  ifiih  year  of  King  Charles  II. , 

2\th  January,  1684." 

Hugo  was  eager  to  hear  all  the  news  ;  even  to  look  at 
Denham's  jolly  face  cheered  him.  At  length,  with  some- 
thing of  an  effort,  he  stemmed  the  tide  of  his  merriment 
and  asked  the  question  that  was  most  at  his  heart 

"My  brother, — have  you  seen  him ?  " 

"Ay,  I  saw  him  not  long  since,"  said  Denham,  frown" 
ing. 

' '  And  you  spoke  with  him  ? " 


33° 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 


"II"  erclaimed  Denham,  wrathfully.  "Odds-fish,  my 
dear  fellow,  I  would  sooner  be  hanged  !  Speak  to  him,  i' 
faith  ?  Why,  I  would  not  so  much  as  touch  my  beaver  to 
him  in  the  street !  " 

Hugo  was  silent  for  a  minute. 

"  Where  did  you  see  him  ?  "  he  asked  at  length. 

"At  the  Temple  Church."  Then,  as  Hugo  looked 
surprised.  "Oh,  all  the  world  and  his  wife  was  there; 
'twas  no  ordinary  day ;  it  was  to  hear  the  rival  organs 
played,  and  to  be  present  at  the  final  decision." 

"Ah!  hath  that  at  length  been  done?"  said  Hugo, 
much  interested. 

"  He  had  watched  the  rival  organ-builders,  Father  Smith 
and  Renatus  Harris,  for  many  months  ;  each  had  built  an 
organ  in  different  parts  of  the  Temple  Church,  and  the 
finest  organ  was  to  be  retained  ;  they  both  proved,  how- 
ever, so  perfect  that  the  decision  was  a  most  difficult  one, 
and  the  builders  went  on  challenging  each  other,  and 
adding  new  stops  to  each  organ,  until  it  seemed  that  the 
choice  would  never  be  made." 

"And  how  hath  it  ended? "  asked  Hugo  eagerly. 

"Well,  Dr.  Tudway  came  and  performed  on  Father 
Smith's  instrument,  and  Lulli  on  the  other,  and  all  the 
world  came  to  hearken  ;  and  who  do  you  think  they  chose 
to  judge  betwixt  the  two  ? — why,  that  beast,  that  fiend, 
that  devil  incarnate,  Jeffreys  !  " 

"I  am  sorry  he  had  a  hand  in  it,"  said  Hugo.  "To 
which  builder  did  he  award  the-palm  ?  " 

"To  Father  Smith  ;  but  they  say  the  other  organ  hath 
suffered  nothing  in  reputation,  for  the  choice  hath  baffled 
better  judges  than  Jeffreys." 

"And  Randolph,"  returned  Hugo,  "  did  he  look  well  ? " 

"  I  don't  know, "  said  Rupert.  "  He  had  been  drinking, 
and  seemed  in  very  jovial  mood.  There,  don't  speak  of 
him  ;  it  makes  my  gorge  rise.  Pardon  me,  I  know  he 
was  your  brother  once,  but  methinks,  now  he  hath  dis- 
owned you,  you  might  give  me  leave  to  rail  at  him. " 

"  I  have  not  disowned  him,  "said  Hugo,  quietly;  "there- 
fore, let  us  say  no  more  on  that  point." 

Denham  bottled  up  his  wrath  till  he  was  out  of  New- 
gate ;  but  then,  finding  it  no  longer  controllable,  joined  a 
band  of  scourers,  and  spent  the  evening  in  wrenching  off 
door-knockers,  assaulting  defenceless  shop-signs,  frighten- 
ing the  chapmen  into  fits,  and  hustling  everything  that 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  331 

was  capable  of  being  hustled.  Seeing  Randolph  Wharn- 
cliffe  and  his  villainy  in  all  these  innocent  objects,  he  at 
length  worked  off  his  indignation,  and  returned  to  Norfolk 
Street  by  and  by,  fairly  well  content  with  his  day's  work. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

FRANCIS  BAMPFIELD,  SAINT. 

Come,  gentle  death  !  the  ebb  of  care. 
The  ebb  of  care,  the  flood  of  life; 
The  flood  of  life,  the  joyful  fare ; 
The  joyful  fare,  the  ena  of  strife ; 
The  end  of  strife,  that  thing  wish  I, 
Wherefore  come  death,  and  let  me  die. 

Anon.    1557. 

ALL  was  very  quiet  in  the  Newgate  cell.  It  was  night. 
Griffith  slept  and  forgot  the  cold,  but  a  rushlight  dimly 
revealed  two  wakeful  figures.  Bampfield  lay  on  a  mat- 
tress close  to  the  fire,  and  Hugo  sat  beside  him,  or  rather 
crouched  beside  him,  for  the  cold  was  excruciating,  and 
made  him  shiver  from  head  to  foot.  He  had  piled  al- 
most all  the  wraps  at  his  disposal  on  the  dying  man,  and, 
when  Bampfield  remonstrated,  made  light  of  it. 

'-'After  two  months  of  this  weather,  I  am  acclimatized," 
he  said,  smiling.  "Your  age  and  infirmity  make  you 
feel  the  cold  more. " 

"Nay,  dear  lad,"  said  the  old  man;  "'tis  not  my  age 
makes  me  cold,  'tis  the  beginning  of  death.  I  shall  never 
be  warm  again — never  again.  Tell  me,  what  day  is  it  ? " 

' '  I  heard  St.  Sepulchre's  bell  ring  twelve  but  a  few 
minutes  since,"  replied  Hugo.  "It  must  be  the  i6th  of 
February. " 

He  had  to  think  a  little,  to  calculate  those  weary  days 
of  the  month  ;  for  time  was  monotonous  in  Newgate,  and 
there  was  little  to  note  its  slow  flight.  Nay,  the  word 
flight  was  a  mockery,  time  crept. 

' '  This  will  be  my  last  day  of  earth, "  said  Bampfield, 
smiling.  "  Do  not  look  so  startled,  so  shocked.  I  am 
dying,  but,  if  you  love  me,  you  would  rejoice.  Feel  my 
feet,  they  are  cold  as  stone  ;  feel  my  pulse,  it  waxes  feeble. 


332 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 


Christ  means  to  call  one  of  His  under-shepherds  home  Co 
Him  this  day  to  render  his  account." 

Hugo  looked  at  the  worn,  sunken  face,  with  its  dark 
shadows.  He  saw  that  Bampfield  was  right.  A  great 
change  had  come  over  the  features  that  had  grown  so 
dear  to  him.  He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and 
wept. 

"I  have  been  more  of  a  care  than  a  comfort  to  you  of 
late, "  said  Bampfield,  feebly.  ' '  More  of  a  care  than  a 
comfort,  lad.  Yet  mayhap  you  will  miss  me  the  more 
for  that.  I  think  you  will  miss  the  old  man.  But,  dear 
lad,  do  not  grudge  me  my  release.  For  I  am  weary,  weary, 
and  heavy-laden. " 

"Let  me  call  Dr.  Griffith,"  said  Hugo,  dashing  the  tears 
from  his  eyes.  "  Perchance  he  might  ease  you.' 

"Nay,  wake  him  not,"  said  Bampfield;  "he  watched 
beside  me  last  night,  and  is  weary.  Besides  he  could  do 
naught.  Hugo,  it  seems  to  me  something  strange  that, 
after  years  and  years  of  imprisonment  for  preaching  the 
gospel,  I  at  length  die  in  jail,  not  for  the  crime  of  preach- 
ing, but  for  refusing  to  take  an  oath.  A  strange  crime, 
methinks." 

"If  you  could  but  have  done  so  with  a  good  con- 
science," said  Hugo,  who  never  had  been  able  to  under- 
stand the  old  man's  difficulty. 

"But  I  could  not,"  said  Bampfield.  "For  see  here  ! 
I  do  not  only  bind  my  soul  to  obey  the  King  that  now  is, 
but  his  heirs  and  successors  also.  And  I  know  not  what 
his  successor  may  be  ;  for  aught  I  know  he  may  be  a 
Popish  successor.  Neither  can  I  swear  to  obey  laws  not 
yet  in  being,  nor  to  be  obedient  to  a  Papist.  Therefore, 
as  things  now  are,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  take  the  oath 
of  allegiance.  Come  life,  come  death,  the  Lord  assisting 
me,  I  will  never  take  it." 

"Tis  true  Christ saith,  'Swear  not  at  all/"  said  Hugo, 
musingly,  "and bade  men  give  but  a  plain  yes  or  no." 

"Ay,  dear  lad,"  said  Bampfield,  his  face  lighting  up, 
"  and  methinks  I  see  a  day,  far  distant  as  yet,  when  His 
rule  shall  be  obeyed  in  this  land  that  calls  itself  His,  but 
keeps  not  His  word.  Oh  !  those  university  oaths  !  so 
many  and  so  oft  multiplied  by  inconsiderate  students  ' 
How  much  guilt  has  been  contracted  thereby." 

"You  die,  then,  as  the  proto-martyr  in  this  cause 
You  die  protesting  against  taking  of  oaths." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  333 

Bampfield  smiled 

"  I  have  trudged  along  through  evil  report  and  through 
good  report,  and,  through  the  help  of  Christ,  I  trust  I 
may  be  His  servant  and  witness  to  the  death.  There  is 
one  last  thing  I  would  ask  you." 

"Ask  anything,"  said  Hugo,  "and,  if  it  only  lie  in 
my  power,  I  will  do  it. " 

"Nay,  I  know  not  how  that  will  be,"  said  Bampfield, 
tenderly.  "I  would  in  no  way  force  thy  conscience. 
Didst  ever  take  the  sacrament,  lad  ? " 

"Once  only,"  said  Hugo,  his  thoughts  flying  away 
from  the  dark  prison  to  the  sunny  church  at  Mondisfield. 

"  Will  you  take  it  once  more  with  me  before  I  leave 
you  ?  When  the  sun  is  risen,  we  will  waken  Dr.  Griffith 
and  make  ready." 

But  Hugo  hesitated. 

"  He  would  not  think  me  fit,"  he  faltered. 

"When  did  the  Saviour  of  mankind  ever  wait  for  men 
to  be  fit  for  Him  ?  "  said  Bampfield,  earnestly.  ' '-'  He  came 
unto  His  own,  and  His  own  received  Him  not.  But  as 
many  as  received  Him  to  them  gave  He  power.'" 

"But  Dr.  Griffith  will  object,"  said  Hugo. 

He  had  meant  Griffith  all  along,  but  was  too  reserved 
to  say  so. 

And  he  was  right.  Griffith  did  object.  Hugo  was  not 
of  their  communion  ;  he  had  made  no  special  profession 
of  devout  feeling  all  these  months,  had  not  ^dded  his  tes- 
timony to  the  testimony  of  the  saints,  had  i.ot  altogether 
lost  the  polite  art,  as  it  was  then  considered,  of  swearing, 
and,  worst  of  all,  had  not  hesitated  to  drink  with  that 
most  noisy  and  boisterous  Templar,  Rupert  Denham. 
But  the  dying  man  overruled  all  these  objections  with 
one  gentle  sentence. 

"Tis  my  last  wish,"  he  said,  faintly.  "And  in  truth, 
good  Griffith,  I  was  always  for  Christ's  open  house-keep- 
mg,  since  I  had  inner  acquaintance  with  Him." 

And  so  when  the  sun  rose  the  three  drew  together,  for- 
getting their  differences  ;  and  when  the  brief,  solemn  serr- 
ice  was  over,  Bampfield  bade  Hugo  rest. 

"You  can  do  no  more  for  me,  dear  lad,"  he  said, 
clasping  his  hand  closely.  "I  have  no  other  wants. 
For  here  in  Newgate  prison  my  Lord  is  with  me  to  the 
Cull  satisfaction  of  my  whole  man." 

They  were  the  last  words  Hugo  ever  fteard  him  speak. 


334  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

For  when,  some  hours  later,  he  awoke  from  sound  and 
dreamless  sleep,  and  looked  hastily  around,  he  saw  that 
the  death-angel  had  visited  the  cell.  The  sunshine  of 
that  Saturday  morning1  streamed  in  through  the  prison 
grating,  and  fell  full  upon  the  peaceful  face,  the  face  from 
which  Death's  gentle  hand  had  smoothed  the  lines  and 
furrows,  leaving  only  the  radiant  smile  with  which 
Christ's  "Under-Shepherd"  had  greeted  the  dawning 
Sabbath. 

Bampfield  had  passed  into  the  Unseen,  where  there 
will  be  no  dispute  as  to  whether  the  Lord's-Day  should  be 
kept  on  the  Saturday  or  the  Sunday,  since  Rest-days  will 
be  merged  in  the  eternal  "Work  without  weariness," 
which  is  true  rest. 

How  infinitely  little  seemed  now  the  disputes  and  con- 
troversies— but  how  priceless  the  patient  endurance,  the 
self-sacrifice,  the  willngness  to  suffer  for  what  he  had 
deemed  the  truth.  Who  could  doubt  that,  while  his  worn- 
out  body  lay  in  the  prison  cell,  he  himself  had  seen  the 
King  in  His  beauty, — had  entered  into  the  joy  of  his  Lord. 

They  buried  him  in  the  presence  of  a  vast  crowd  of  on- 
lookers, in  the  burial-ground  behind  the  Baptist  Chapel 
in  Glass  House  Yard,  Goswell  Street.  But,  although 
many  mourned  for  him,  none  mourned  so  truly  as  his 
fellow-prisoners. 

Hugo  seemed  unable  to  recover  from  this  second  blow, 
and  in  truth  it  seemed  as  if  that  spring  he  was  to  be 
brought  into  perpetual  nearness  to  death.  One  day 
Thomas  Delaune  was  brought  to  the  cell,  Scroop  having 
assigned  him  Bampfield's  vacant  place.  He  came  a 
broken-down,  broken-hearted  man.  His  babe  was  dead, 
his  wife  was  dead,  he  himself  looked  as  though  his  days 
were  numbered,  while  little  Tom,  so  bonny  and  rosy  a 
few  months  before,  was  now  a  little  ghost  of  a  child, 
seldom  complaining,  seldom  even  speaking,  but  slowly 
and  silently  fading  away.  That  cruel  winter  in  Newgate 
had  much  to  answer  for. 

The  new-comers  roused  Hugo  from  his  dull  apathy. 
He  listened  to  poor  Delaune's  complaints  ;  he  listened  a 
hundred  times  to  his  favorite  assertion  that  "Newgate 
was  a  severe  kind  of  logic,  and  would  probably  dispute 
him  out  of  the  world."  He  listened  to  all  the  arguments 
of  the  luckless  pamphlet  which  had  cost  the  writer  so 
dear  ;  and  the  poor,  trihappy  man  learnt  to  love  him  and 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  KS".  335 

to  lean  on  him,  even  though  he  showed  a  hopeless  inapt- 
itude for  theological  discussions. 

Mary  came  often  with  her  uncle  to  visit  them,  and  she 
did  her  best  for  the  little  boy,  who  lingered  on  until  the 
spring.  The  father,  though  refusing  to  let  the  child  go, 
was  too  ill  himself  to  attend  to  it ;  Mary  did  the  nursing 
by  day,  and  Hugo  by  night. 

One  morning  Tom  looked  up  languidly  from  the  little 
bed  which  they  had  made  for  him. 

"I  would  like  to  see  out  of  doors,"  he  said,  faintly. 

"Could  you  not  hold  him  up  to  the  window?"  said 
Mary.  "I  do  not  think  the  air  could  hurt  him." 

And  Hugo  held  him  high  up  in  his  arms,  so  that  the 
little  fellow  could  peep  out  through  the  bars. 

He  saw  the  sun  shining  brightly,  he  saw  the  trees 
around  Christ's  Hospital,  and  heard  the  sound  of  the  boys 
at  their  play. 

"You  said  I  couldn't  come  too  when  you  went  to 
Die,"  he  said,  faintly,  as  they  laid  him  once  more  in  bed. 
"But  I  am  going  now.  Die  is  better  than  prison;  I 
dreamed  in  the  night  all  about  it,  and  there  are  green 
trees,  and  children  that  sing,  and  no  bars  between — no 
hard,  cold  bars." 

He  glanced  up  at  the  window  until,  to  his  dazzled  sight, 
the  light  overpowered  the  darkness,  and  where  the  grat- 
ing had  been  was  only  a  golden  glory.  Then,  tired  with  the 
brightness,  his  eyes  closed,  and  gradually  unconscious- 
ness cr  pt  ov  r  him,  and  thus  death  took  him  painlessly 
away  from  Newgate  to  the  land  where  there  are  "no  bary 
between." 

Delaune  did  not  long  survive  his  child.  Father,  mother, 
and  the  two  poor  little  children  all  met  their  death  be- 
cause it  was  deemed  a  crime  to  put  forth  a  pamphlet 
which  stated  the  views  of  a  Nonconformist.  Truly  the 
liberty  of  the  press  has  not  been  secured  to  Englishmen 
without  tears  and  blood. 

At  length  Hugo  was  once  more  in  solitary  confinement 
For  Griffith,  honest,  worthy,  narrow  Dr.  Griffith  was 
pardoned,  and  once  more  took  his  place  among  free  men. 
They  parted  in  all  kindness,  and  Hugo's  congratulations 
were  quite  sincere.  But  although  had  they  lived  together 
for  years,  they  could  never  have  been  friends,  he  missed 
the  old  doctor  sorely.  Solitude  was  terrible,  even  when 
for  part  of  the  day  Jeremiah  was  allowed  to  be  with  him, 


336  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

and  his  friends  to  visit  him.  But  he  had  that  wretched 
feeling  of  being  left  behind  which  is  of  all  things  most 
dreary.  The  King  had  pardoned  Griffith,  but  he  would 
not  pardon  him,  and  even  Death,  who  had  released  all  the 
others,  refused  to  come  to  his  aid.  In  vain  Mary  and 
Rupert  did  their  best  to  keep  up  his  spirits.  His  attacks 
of  ague  returned,  he  lost  hope,  enduring  indeed  bravely 
and  patiently,  but  no  longer  dreaming  of  escape,  of 
liberty,  and  of  Joyce. 

One  day  Mary,  returning  home,  fairly  burst  into  tears. 

"  He  will  die,  aunt,"  she  sobbed;  "he  will  die  if  he 
stays  there  much  longer.  Oh  !  what  can  be  done  ?  How 
may  we  save  him  ?  " 

"My  dear  niece,  I  see  no  way  of  saving  him,"  said 
Lady  Denham,  sadly.  "We  can  but  do  our  best  to 
lighten  his  imprisonment." 

That  evening  they  went  to  the  theatre.  The  play  was 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  the  last  that  Mary  would  have  chosen 
to  witness ;  but,  although  sad-hearted  and  weary,  she 
would  not  stay  at  home,  for  it  was  against  her  own  rule 
to  allow  her  attendance  on  Hugo  in  any  way  to  interfere 
with  her  home  life.  She  still  went  with  her  aunt  to  re- 
ceptions and  balls,  she  danced  and  talked,  despite  her 
heavy  heart,  and  lived  down  the  gossip  which  inevitably 
arose  about  her  friendship  for  young  Mr.  Wharncliffe. 
She  felt  herself  the  custodian  of  his  honor,  and  this  gave 
her  strength  to  meet  banter  with  indifference,  teasing  with 
a  smile,  and  searching  questions  about  Hugo  with  never 
a  blush.  To  have  shut  herself  up  at  home  would  have 
been  to  give  rise  to  scandal ;  she  bravely  went  into  society 
almost  every  evening,  as  much  for  Hugo's  sake  as  she 
went  to  Newgate  in  the  morning. 

Suddenly,  as  the  play  passed  before  her  tired  eyes,  a 
thought  flashed  into  her  mind.  The  Friar  was  speaking 
with  Juliet,  and  something  in  his  manner  startled  her  into 
sudden  attention,  though  she  had  not  noted  what  had 
passed  just  before. 

"  Hold,  daughter ;  I  do  spy  a  kind  of  hope, 
Which  craves  as  desperate  an  execution 
As  that  is  desperate  which  we  would  prevent." 

She  had  never  read  or  seen  this  play  before  ;  Shakespere 
was  emphatically  not  the  poet  of  the  Restoration,  and  his 
plays  were  but  seldom  acted.  Breathlessly  she  watched 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  337 

the  gift  of  the  magic  vial,  the  contents  of  which  were  to 
make  Juliet  look  as  one  dead.  Eagerly  she  looked  at  the 
fair  corpse  as  it  was  carried  forth  to  the  grave.  After  all 
it  was  not  so  hard  to  counterfeit  death.  And  death  might 
be  the  deliverer.  Death  apparently  was  the  only  deliverer 
from  Newgate.  All  that  night  she  lay  awake  in  a  fever 
of  excitement  as  gradually  the  details  of  the  escape  shaped 
themselves  more  and  more  clearly  in  her  mind.  The  next 
morning  she  went  straight  to  her  uncle,  for  without  his 
co-operation  she  saw  that  nothing  could  be  done,  but  she 
went  hopefully,  for  she  knew  that  he  had  always  refused 
to  see  any  political  principle  involved  in  Hugo's  imprison- 
ment, she  knew  that  he  was  extremely  fond  of  him,  and 
would  sacrifice  almost  anything  to  save  him.  The  uncl« 
and  niece  were  closeted  together  for  more  than  an  hour. 
Later  in  the  day  they  went  together  to  Newgate. 


CHAPTER  XXXVL 

HOPES  AND   FEARS. 

Ill  be  as  patient  as  a  gentle  stream, 
And  make  a  pastime  of  each  weary  step, 
Till  the  last  step  have  brought  me  to  my  love , 
And  there  111  rest,  as  after  much  turmoil, 
A  blessed  soul  doth  in  Elysium. 

SHAKBWERE. 

"You  have  been  growing  ever  less  hopeful  of  late," 
said  Mary,  reproachfully. 

"For  what  can  I  hope,"  said  Hugo  wearily.  "To 
dream  of  escape  is  idle,  every  day  I  grow  weaker.  Do  you 
know  that  it  has  come  to  this,  I  can  no  longer  climb  up  to 
the  grating.  The  men  who  saw  their  way  through  iron, 
and  gnaw  their  way  through  stone,  are  men  strong  of  limb, 
sinewy  and  vigorous,  they  have  not  been  weakened  by 
torture,  and  starvation,  and  damp  and  cold ;  they  are  not 
liable  to  be  overtaken  every  other  day  by  the  ague,  or  if 
so  then  they  must  be  men  of  tougher  nature.  It  is  use- 
less to  talk  to  me  of  escape.  There  is  only  one  deliverer 
from  Newgate,  and  he  comes  to  all  prisoners  sooner  or 
later,  therefore  he  must  some  day  come  to  me." 


338  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

There  was  unusual  bitterness  in  his  tone.  He  knew 
that  he  was  losing  strength  rapidly,  and  the  conscious- 
ness humiliated  him. 

"Indeed,"  said  Mary,  "it  doth  seem  that  death  is  the 
only  deliverer.  Have  there  been  many  deaths  lately?  " 

"Yes,  the  hard  winter  has  done  its  work,  the  young 
and  the  old  died  in  the  frost,  the  others  lingered  longer, 
but  Scroop  tells  me  there  are  deaths  daily  in  the  common 
wards. " 

' '  Then  perhaps  they  are  not  very  particular  as  to  the 
disposal  of  the  dead, "  said  Sir  William. 

"  Nay,  the  great  thing  is  to  hustle  forth  the  corpse  that 
its  space  may  be  taken  by  some  other  wretch." 

"Scroop  is  friendly  to  you,  I  believe? " 

"Yes,  he  hath  ever  been  that.     I  don't  know  why." 

"Suppose  you  were  to  follow  the  fair  Juliet's  example," 
said  Sir  William,  "  do  you  think  Scroop  would,  if  admitted 
into  the  secret,  put  you  himself  into  the  coffin,  and  see 
that  you  were  borne  to  my  house  ?  " 

Hugo  started  to  his  feet  with  an  exclamation  of  surprise 
and  alarm,  which  was  nevertheless  tinged  with  a  wild 
hope. 

"  Let  us  talk  the  matter  over  quietly,"  said  Sir  William, 
lowering  his  voice,  "  I  see  no  reason  why  we  should  not 
try  the  plan,  and  bring  it  to  a  more  successful  issue  than 
the  good  folks  of  Verona.  The  question  is,  do  we  do  well 
to  risk  admitting  Scroop  to  the  secret.  To  ask  his  help  is 
to  betray  ourselves. " 

"  Nothing  can  be  done  without  him,"  said  Hugo.  "  He 
is  keen  as  any  hawk,  that  is  why  the  governor  trusts  him 
with  so  much.  But  yet  I  know  not  whether  he  would 
risk  so  much  out  of  love  for  me.  Why  indeed  should 
any  one?  why  should  you  run  so  grave  a  danger  for  the 
sake  of  one  not  even  of  your  own  kin  ?  Were  I  discovered, 
think  how  grave  the  results  might  be  for  yourself.  Nay, 
I  cannot  permit  it.  You  must  not  incur  so  great  a  risk 
for  me. " 

"Why,  my  dear  boy,  do  you  not  know  that  but  a  few 
days  since  that  vile  Captain  Clifford  found  friends  willing 
to  rescue  him  from  the  Fleet  ?  If  they  were  willing  to  run 
the  risk  for  such  an  one,  do  you  think  we  shall  not  be 
willing  to  do  as  much  for  you  ?  And  in  good  time  here 
comes  your  jailer.  We  will  withdraw,  and  you  shall  tell 
him  as  much  as  you  think  fit" 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS,  339 

Now  the  jailer  had  really  learnt  to  love  Hugo,  and 
when,  bit  by  bit,  the  plan  of  escape  was  intrusted  to  him, 
it  was  no  bribe  which  made  him  consent  to  lend  his  help. 
He  knew  that,  if  he  refused,  Hugo  would  remain  a  few 
months  longer  in  Newgate,  and  would  then  inevitably  die. 
He  saw  no  harm  whatever  in  giving  him  a  false  certificate 
of  death,  nay,  he  rubbed  his  hands  with  delight  at  the 
prospect  of  a  little  plot  within  the  jail,  a  little  excitement 
in  the  midst  of  his  dreary  life  of  routine  work.  As  to  any 
drug  he  said  there  was  no  necessity  for  it  whatever.  No 
one  would  come  to  look  at  the  prisoner.  He  should  duly 
nail  him  up  in  his  coffin,  report  his  death  to  the  governor, 
and  have  his  body  delivered  to  his  friends. 

When  this  was  arranged,  Sir  William,  and  old  Jeremiah 
having  joined  them  in  the  cell  and  discussed  all  the  details 
with  Scroop,  it  only  remained  to  fix  the  time  of  the  escape. 
Hugo,  hardly  able  to  stand,  so  great  was  his  excitement, 
looked  eagerly  from  one  to  the  other,  knowing  that  he 
must  leave  the  day  to  them,  and  yet  so  eager  to  seize  that 
very  instant  that  he  hardly  knew  how  he  should  endure 
any  delay.  Breathlessly  he  listened  to  Sir  William's 
thoughtful,  cautious  arguments,  which,  to  his  satisfaction, 
ended  with  the  remark. 

"After  all,  delays  are  dangerous — the  sooner  a  plot  is 
carried  through  the  less  risk  to  it.  When  are  you  liable 
to  your  next  attack  of  ague  ?  " 

"This  very  day,"  groaned  Hugo,  who  had  forgotten 
his  old  enemy. 

"Nay,  do  not  be  disheartened,  that  will  exactly  serve 
our  turn,"  said  Sir  William.  "We  shall  let  fall  that  you 
are  not  long  for  this  world,  Scroop  will  tell  the  governor 
there  is  no  hope  for  you,  which  in  truth  will  be  the  case 
an  you  stay  here  much  longer.  Then  in  the  night  you 
will  die  ;  next  evening  we  shall  send  a  coffin  for  your  re- 
mains, with  bearers  who  can  be  trusted,  Jeremiah  would 
naturally  be  one,  my  butler  another,  Rupert  must  be  in- 
trusted with  our  secret,  so  he  might  figure  as  a  third,  and 
I  have  no  doubt  Colonel  Sydney's  man  Ducasse  would  be 
a  willing  and  safe  man  for  the  fourth.  How  say  you,  Mr. 
Jailer,  will  that  be  well  ?  " 

"Your  honor  could  not  have  planned  it  better,"  said 
Scroop,  taking  grim  delight  in  all  the  arrangements. 

"Well,  then,  do  you  second  our  efforts  faithfully,  and 
if  all  is  brought  to  a  happy  issue,  then  come  to  my  house 


340 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 


this  day  se'nnight  and  I  will  give  you  twenty  golden 
guineas." 

Scroop's  little  eyes  twinkled.  He  loved  gold.  Never- 
theless, he  would  have  risked  all  only  for  Hugo's  sake. 

"There's  one  thing  more,  sir,"  said  the  jailer,  just  as 
the  visitors  were  preparing  to  leave.  "The  coffin,  sir; 
you  must  measure  Mr.  Wharncliffe. " 

Spite  of  themselves  they  all  laughed,  as  Hugo  lay  down 
on  the  bed  to  be  measured,  whilst  alive,  for  his  coffin. 
Nor  was  the  task  easy,  since  they  had  no  proper  imple- 
ments, and  were  only  too  well  aware  that  any  error  now 
might  prove  the  destruction  of  their  hopes.  In  the  end 
Mary  sacrificed  the  lace  edging  of  her  mantle,  tore  it  off 
in  long  strips  and  with  infinite  care  took  those  dread 
measurements.  Then,  tremulously  winding  up  the  lace, 
she  glanced  round  the  little  room  which  had  grown  so 
familiar  to  her.  If  all  went  well,  this  was  the  last  time 
she  should  ever  enter  it.  There  was  no  denying  that, 
spite  of  anxiety  and  sorrow,  those  months  of  attendance 
on  Hugo  had  been  very  sweet ;  she  knew  now  that  they 
were  over,  she  knew  that  he  would  have  to  fly  the  coun- 
try, and  that  in  all  probability  she  should  never  look  on 
him  again.  For  a  moment  the  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes, 
even  in  the  fulfilment  of  her  own  scheme,  and  in  the  pros- 
pect >f  Ihc  consummation  of  her  hopes  ; — after  all  she  was 
but  a  woman.  But  dri  ing  back  her  tears  she  looked  at 
Hugo.  There  was  new  life  in  his  face,  new  hope,  eager 
and  rapturous  expectation.  That  look  was  her  reward. 
She  bore  it  with  her  all  the  day  ;  having  learnt  to  weep 
with  those  that  wept,  she  now  learnt  to  rejoice  with  those 
that  rejoiced. 

In  the  mean  time  Hugo,  almost  beside  himself  with  the 
thought  of  all  the  possibilities  of  the  next  few  hours,  made 
such  preparations  as  he  could  for  the  escape.  There  was 
very  little  to  be  done.  He  begged  Jeremiah  to  see  that 
his  three  beloved  books  were  placed  with  him  in  the  coffin, 
then  restlessly  pacing  the  cell  began  to  discuss  the  future 
with  the  old  man. 

"  I  shall  have  to  leave  London  at  once,  Jerry,"  he  said  ; 
"I  shall  have,  of  course,  to  leave  England,  but  first  I 
must  down  to  Suffolk  to  Colonel  Wharncliffe 's  place.  In 
the  mean  time  what  will  become  of  you  ?  How  am  I  ever 
to  reward  all  that  you  have  done  for  me  ?  " 

' '  By  letting  me  be  with  you.  lad, "  said  Jeremiah ;  "I 


IN  THE  GOLDLAr  DAYS.  341 

want  no  reward  but  that,  and  I  have  laid  by  enough  to 
serve  us  both  for  a  while." 

Hugo  wrung  his  hand. 

"  My  dear  old  friend,"  he  said,  gratefully,  "  when  once 
we  are  safe  in  Holland  I  will  work  for  the  two  of  us.  See, 
Jerry  ;  if  you  will  indeed  share  my  fortunes,  how  would 
it  be  if  you  went  on  to  Harwich,  then  I  will  meet  you 
there  when  I  have  kept  my  promise  and  seen  Colonel 
Wharncliffe  and — and  his  family." 

"There  is  one  thing  we  must  have  a  care  of,"  said  Jer- 
emiah, gravely.  "No  rumor  of  your  death  must  reach 
Mr.  Randolph,  else  mayhap  he  may  be  claiming  your  body 
for  burial." 

Hugo  shuddered. 

"I  had  not  thought  of  that,"  he  said.  "And  yet  me- 
thinks  there  is  no  fear.  He  hath  disowned  me  in  life, 
why  should  he  claim  me  in  death  ?  " 

No  more  was  said  just  then,  for  ere  long  Hugo  fell  into 
a  violent  shivering  fit,  and  was  forced  to  go  through  all 
the  weary  stages  of  his  fever,  ever  with  the  thought  of  his 
escape  floating  through  his  mind.  Night  drew  on,  Jere- 
miah was  obliged  to  go,  and  he  bent  down  and  embraced 
his  master  as  he  heard  the  jailer  unlock  the  door,  the  sig- 
nal that  his  time  was  up. 

"For  the  last  time,  dear  lad,  the  last  time,"  he  said, 
fervently.  "  God  have  you  in  His  keeping." 

"Last  time  !  "  said  a  harsh  voice  behind  him.  "Why 
for  the  last  time,  pray  ?  " 

The  old  Cromwellian  was  not  to  be  startled,  though  in 
mortal  terror  he  rose  quietly,  and  in  the  dimly-lighted  cell 
turned  to  confront  the  speaker.  He  had  made  sure  that 
it  was  Scroop  who  had  unlocked  the  door.  Scroop 
had  always  come  to  him  before  at  that  time ;  by  what 
evil  chance  had  some  others  come  on  this  night  of  all 
others  !  He  turned  and  confronted  the  governor  of 
Newgate. 

"Come  now,  explain  yourself,  what  is  this  about  last 
time  ? " 

"Sir,  yonder  lies  the  explanation,"  said  Jeremiah,  wav- 
ing his  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  bed. 

The  governor  bent  down  nearer  to  the  patient  and  saw 
that  he  was  in  a  raging  fever ;  he  touched  the  burning 
brow  and  recoiled. 

"'Tis  but  the  ague,"  he  said,  carelessly.      "  An' I  re- 


342  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

member  right,  the  prisoner  hath  suffered  from  it  this  long 
time." 

"He  will  not  suffer  much  longer,  the  Lord  be  praised," 
said  Jeremiah.  "Oh  !  sir,  for  God's  sake  let  me  be  with 
my  master  this  night.  Load  me  with  fetters,  an  you  will, 
but  let  me  be  with  him  to  the  end." 

"Damnation  take  your  impudence!  "  said  the  gov- 
ernor, harshly.  "Do  you  think  men  are  to  be  pampered 
like  princes  here  in  jail  ?  Be  off  with  you  !  The  prisoner 
is  no  more  dying  than  I  am  ;  hell  outlive  you,  you  grum- 
bling graybeard,  that  I  dare  swear." 

Jeremiah  said  no  more,  but  once  more  embraced  the 
prisoner  a'nd  went  forth  with  bowed  head. 

Hugo  was  vaguely  aware  that  the  governor  was  present ; 
he  fancied  that  somehow  their  plans  were  in  great  danger, 
but  his  fevered  brain  had  not  seen  the  true  bearings  of  the 
case,  he  did  not  know  that  Jeremiah  had  adroitly  made 
the  most  of  his  illness,  and  had  really  impressed  the  gov- 
ernor with  the  idea  that  he  was  dying. 

Presently  Scroop  entered.  Hugo  was  aware  that  he 
was  talking  to  the  governor.  He  began  to  tremble. 
Would  the  man  betray  them?  What  was  this  he  was 
saying?  Oh,  that  he  were  not  in  this  distorting  fever, 
which  would  not  let  him  see  or  hear  things  as  they  really 
were ! 

"How  now,  Scroop,  is  this  gentleman  really  dying? 
His  man  swears  he'll  not  outlast  the  night.  In  that  case, 
maybe  we  ought  to  let  his  brother  have  due  notice.  Me- 
thinks  they  would  try  to  force  evidence  from  him  once 
more. " 

"Oh,  he'll  outlast  the  night,  sir,"  said  Scroop,  con- 
fidently. "  I  don't  think  there  is  any  call  to  send  at  this 
hour. " 

After  that  the  governor  went  away,  and  Scroop,  having 
placed  some  water  beside  the  patient,  followed  him,  lock- 
ing and  bolting  the  door  with  his  usual  noisiness. 

It  was  a  terrible  night  for  Hugo,  for  when  at  length  the 
fever-stage  passed,  he  was  left  to  an  agony  of  fear  and 
apprehension,  vaguely  remembering  scraps  of  the  con- 
versation that  had  passed  in  the  cell,  and  seeing  as  he  had 
never  seen  before  the  thousand  risks  which  lay  before 
him. 

Had  Scroop  been  faithful  ?  He  could  not  feel  sure. 
Had  the  governor  suspected  aught  ?  He  could  not  tell 


2N  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  343 

Would  they  indeed  send  word  to  Randolph  ?  And  would 
his  brother  claim  his  body,  and  perhaps  bury  it  before  the 
others  could  interfere  ?  Horrible  visions  rose  before  him 
in  the  darkness.  He  was  buried  alive  ;  he  was  discovered 
before  the  coffin  was  nailed  down,  and  all  his  friends 
suffered  for  their  attempts  to  help  him.  He  was  permitted 
to  escape,  but  was  overtaken  on  the  Newmarket  Road  by 
Randolph.  Or  again  all  was  checked  at  the  outset,  and 
he  remained  in  that  cell,  deserted  by  all  men,  until  he 
was  old  and  gray-headed. 

His  brain  reeled,  he  groaned  aloud  in  the  anguish  of  his 
imaginings.  And  then  in  the  dark  cell  there  came  to  him 
the  echoes  of  a  woman's  voice,  the  voice  which  day  by 
day  had  spoken  words  of  comfort  to  him.  He  remembered 
how  once  before  in  despair  those  words  had  come  to  his 
aid,  "Bid  Hope  throw  her  rainbow  arch  over  the  future 
you  paint  so  black." 

It  was  as  if  an  angel  had  bid  him  be  of  good  cheer.  He 
turned  from  the  thoughts  of  terror  and  darkness,  and 
thought  of  Joyce.  Once  more  that  vision  rose  before  him 
of  Joyce  beneath  the  elm- trees  at  the  gate,  waiting  to  bid 
some  one  welcome.  He  had  said  in  his  letter  that  she 
welcomed  her  father ;  what  if  instead  it  was  her  lover  for 
whom  she  waited  !  His  very  rapture  made  him  calm,  for 
how  much — how  much  depended  on  his  self-control,  on 
his  wisdom  ?  Conscious  of  this,  he  fell  on  his  knees  and 
prayed  in  the  words  of  that  collect  which  was  most  familiar 
to  him  for  the  spirit  to  think  and  do  always  such  things  as 
be  rightful 

A  few  minutes  later,  he  was  sleeping  peacefully,  and 
for  the  last  time  the  moonlight  streamed  in  through  the 
grated  window  and  lit  up  his  quiet  face.  Just  so  had  it 
fallen  months  before  upon  him  on  the  night  of  his  first 
admission  to  Newgate.  Then  Bampfield  had  knelt  beside 
him  and  prayed ;  perchance  even  now  he  did  the  same 
unseen  ;  perchance  he  was  able  to  see  that  there  was  no 
need,  since  the  proof  that  his  prayers  had  been  answered 
lay  in  the  wonderful  change  which  in  these  months  had 
passed  over  the  face  of  the  sleeper. 

"Very  well,"  said  Scroop,  cheerfully,  as  he  entered  the 
cell  next  morning.  "You  are  now  dead,  sir.  As  good 
luck  will  have  it,  the  governor  will  be  out  till  evening. 
I  shall  mention  to  him  just  as  he  leaves  that  you  are  dead, 
and  that  your  friends  have  begged  your  body  for  burial. 


344 


THE  GOLDEN  LA  Ki. 


No  one  can  now  enter  the  cell  but  me  ;  you  have  notmng 
to  fear,  but  have  only  to  keep  quiet.  I  have  brought  you 
what  food  I  was  able  to  bring  without  being  observed,  for 
the  daily  dole  will  not  be  brought  to  a  corpse.  " 

"All  lies  now  in  your  hands,"  said  Hugo,  anxiously. 
"But  there,  I  trust  you,  Scroop  —  I  have  good  reason  to 
trust  you." 

The  jailer  gave  an  inscrutable  smile,  and  went  away 
without  another  word,  locking  the  door  behind  him.  He 
went  straight  to  the  governor's  house.  That  worthy  had 
.business  at  Edmonton,  and  was  just  preparing  to  ride 
thither. 

"  How  now,  Scroop,  I  cannot  see  to  business,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "Confound  you  !  can't  you  see  I'm  starting  on 
a  journey  ?  " 

"  'Tis  naught,  your  honor,"  said  Scroop,  deferentially. 
"I  will  not  detain  your  honor.  I  did  but  just  bring  you 
word  that  young  Mr.  Wharncliffe  is  dead.  He  must  have 
died  i'  the  night,  sir  ;  for  this  morning,  going  into  his  cell 
as  usual,  I  found  him  cold  as  any  stone.  'Tis  passing 
strange,  for  I  could  have  sworn  upon  oath  last  night  that 
he'd  have  been  spared  to  us  many  a  day  to  come.  But 
'tis  ever  the  way,  sir.  Them  as  is  worth  plucking  dies 
first,  and  such  as  be  not  worth  a  penny  lasts  till  kingdom 
come." 

The  governor  swore  a  deep  oath. 

"There  goes  a  good  slice  of  my  income,"  he  said, 
resentfully.  "Sir  William  Denham  is  soft  as  to  the  heart 
and  heavy  as  to  the  purse.  I  doubt  Mr.  Wharncliffe  will 
never  know  how  well  his  friends  have  lined  my  pockets. 
Do  they  know  of  his  death  ?  " 

"  Ay,  sir  ;  and  they  wish  him  to  be  brought  away  for 
burial,  an'  you  will  permit." 

"Why,  confound  them!  they  are  welcome  to  the 
corpse  !  An  they  like  to  save  us  the  trouble  of  putting 
it  in  the  earth,  so  much  the  better.  Give  me  living  bodies 
to  grow  rich  on,  not  dead  ones.  I'll  have  a  look  at  the 
corpse  to-morrow  ;  it  is  too  late  now.  I  cannot  be 
delayed.  " 

Scroop  went  away  well  satisfied.  All  promised  well  ; 
he  was  not  afraid  for  the  result.  He  went  about  all  day 
talking  to  his  brother-jailers  of  the  good  source  of  income 
which  he  had  lost.  He  jested  about  the  garnish  which  he 
l.-:.4  received  from  Hugo.  He  paid  up  a  bet  which  he  had 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  KS.  345 

made  on  the  previous  night  of  ten  to  one  on  Hugo's 
recovery.  And  thus  the  day  passed — a  day  of  suspense 
to  all  the  parties  concerned,  and  to  the  prisoner  almost 
unendurable.  At  length  the  daylight  faded,  and  as 
darkness  once  more  fell  upon  the  gloomy  little  room  he 
knew  that  the  crisis  of  his  fate  drew  near.  By  and  by 
there  were  steps  without,  and  the  key  turned  in  the  lock. 
He  lay  motionless  on  the  bed  with  closed  eyes.  Supposing 
it  should  not  be  Scroop  ?  He  trembled,  and  knew  that 
he  trembled  ;  it  was  no  easy  thing  to  enact  death. 
Some  one  came  and  bent  over  him,  then  broke  into  a 
'augh. 

"Corpses  must  lie  still,  young  gentleman,"  exclaimed 
Scroop,  in  a  low  voice.  ' '  An  you  tremble  like  that,  you'll 
make  the  very  coffin  shake." 

Hugo  sat  up  with  a  gasp  of  relief. 

"  You  gave  me  a  terrible  fright,"  he  said,  breathlessly. 
'  Ah,  it  is  come  then  !  " 

He  looked  with  rapture  at  the  grim,  black  coffin  which 
was  to  prove  his  salvation.  Scroop  went  into  silent  con- 
vulsions of  laughter. 

"Tis  not  often  one  of  your  sort  is  so  welcome!"  he 
exclaimed,  apostrophizing  the  coffin  with  a  little  patroniz- 
ing caress.  "Sounds  as  if  there  was  plenty  of  room, 
doesn't  it?  "  as  the  hollow  lid  resounded  to  his  flippant 
pat.  "Well,  sir,  in  with  you.  The  sooner  the  better,  for 
your  friends  wait  at  the  gate." 

Hugo  grasped  the  jailer's  rough  hand,  thanking  him 
fervently  for  all  he  had  done  for  him,  but  Scroop  cut  his 
farewells  short,  and,  brushing  a  tear  from  his  eye,  once 
more  bade  him  make  no  more  delay. 

Then,  with  a  slight  shiver,  Hugo  lay  down  in  the  narrow 
coffin  ;  Scroop,  at  his  request,  laid  the  three  books  beside 
him,  disposed  the  woollen  shroud  so  that  it  should  not 
cover  his  mouth  and  then  closed  the  lid.  Hugo  gasped 
for  breath.  There  were  air-holes  purposely  pierced  for  him. 
He  knew  that  he  should  not  be  suffocated,  but  yet  the 
darkness  and  closeness  were  terrible.  Then  came  the 
screwing  down  of  the  lid,  a  horrible  grating  sound  close 
to  his  head ;  it  was  ghastly !  It  came  again  at  his  feet, 
and  again  on  either  side  of  him  :  the  process  seemed  end- 
less. At  length  came  a  pause.  Scroop  threw  down  his 
implements  on  the  floor,  and,  unlocking  the  door,  went 
out  Hugo  guessed  that  he  had  gone  to  summon  the 


346  Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

bearers.  He  began  to  grow  calmer  ;  all  seemed  going  so 
smoothly.  Surely  now  there  was  nothing  to  fear  1 

All  at  once  his  heart  began  to  beat  wildly,  to  thump 
against  his  breast  so  violently  that  he  thought  it  must  be 
audible  all  over  the  cell.  For  steps  had  drawn  near,  foot- 
steps too  light  for  Scroop's  heavy  shuffling  tread. 

"The  devil!  what  have  we  here!  Why,  nailed  up, 
already  !  "  • 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  governor  of  Newgate,  and 
through  the  air-holes  Hugo  could  see  that  a  light  was  held 
close  to  his  coffin.  There  was  a  terrible  pause.  Would 
the  fellow  hear  the  beating  of  his  heart  ?  Could  he  keep 
rigidly  still  when  he  was  in  such  an  agony  of  fright? 
There  came  the  tramp  of  feet  in  the  corridor.  All  his 
friends  were  coming,  Rupert,  Jeremiah,  Ducasse,  and  Sir 
William's  old  butler.  What  would  happen  to  them,  he 
wondered,  should  the  trick  be  discovered.  The  governor 
stepped  to  the  door. 

"Why,  how  now,  Scroop,  nailed  the  young  fellow  up 
already  ?  I  said  I  should  come  and  look  at  him  on  the 
morrow. " 

"  Tis  true,  your  honor,  "said  Scroop,  humbly.  "  But 
Sir  William  Denham  sent  his  men,  and  begged  the  body 
to-night,  and  as  they'd  brought  the  coffin,  I  thought  they 
might  as  well  take  the  body  and  free  the  room,  which 
your  honor  remembers  is  a  valuable  one." 

"  Well,  well,  'tis  no  great  matter.  Where  are  his  irons  ? 
He  wore  them  an  I  mistake  not." 

"  But  a  light  pair,  your  honor,  and  truth  to  tell,  in  the 
haste  of  the  moment,  I  forgot  to  file  them  off.  But  the 
corpse  is  not  laid  out,  and  no  doubt  Sir  William's  servant 
will  restore  the  shackles,  since  they  must  open  the 
coffin. " 

"  A  pest  on  your  laziness  !  open  the  coffin  now  and 
take  them  off  here.  Don't  you  know  the  shackles  are  the 
property  of  the  jail  ?  I've  lost  enough  in  Mr.  Wharncliffe 
and  will  not  lose  the  fetters  with  him  into  the  bargain. " 

Scroop,  in  a  terrible  fright,  went  to  get  a  file ;  he  saw 
that  he  had  made  a  fearful  mistake,  he  cursed  his  folly. 
Why  had  he  not  said  that  he  had  taken  the  irons  off? 
Why  had  he  not  thought  of  this  before  ?  Were  all  his 
plans  to  be  baffled  ?  Was  Hugo  to  be  condemned  to 
perpetual  imprisonment  for  the  sake  of  a  pair  of  shackles? 
He  was  so  paralyzed  by  this  unforeseen  occurrence  that 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  347 

his  wits  forsook  him  ;  he  could  think  of  no  fresh  plan. 
In  dogged  despair  he  brought  a  file,  and  then  slowly  be- 
gan to  unscrew  the  lid  of  the  coffin. 

Again  that  horrible  grating  sound.  Hugo  lay  still  in 
silent  agony  ;  his  only  hope  now  was  in  his  being  able 
to  feign  death.  The  last  screw  was  at  length  removed, 
the  lid  was  raised,  a  rush  of  fresh  air  and  red  light  greeted 
him  as  he  lay  there  with  closed  eyes,  the  voices  which 
before  had  sounded  thick  and  muffled  now  beat  loud  and 
clear  upon  his  ears. 

Scroop,  seizing  the  light,  placed  it  at  the  foot  of  the 
coffin  and  began  to  file  away  with  all  his  might  at  the 
shackles,  Hugo  letting  his  leg  lie  limply  in  his  hold,  and 
relieved  to  feel  that  his  face  must  be  in  shadow.  The 
governor  glanced  at  him. 

" He  was  a  pretty  fellow  enough,"  he  remarked.  "I 
reckon  some  maid  will  have  a  sore  heart  for  him.  That 
fair  Mistress  Denham  loved  him,  I  dare  swear.  How 
now,  Scroop,  burying  his  books  with  him  ?  " 

"  I  thought  mayhap  his  frends  would  like  to  have  them, 
sir,"  said  the  jailer. 

"  But  belike  I  should  care  to  have  them.  You  are  over- 
partial  to  this  young  gentleman  and  his  friends,  and 
would  rob  me  of  my  dues. " 

He  stopped  and  took  up  the  Republic  o/Plalo,  hastily 
glancing  through  the  contents.  As  he  did  so  the  oak-leaf 
which  Algernon  Sydney  had  placed  in  the  book  on  that 
spring  day  in  Penshurst  Park,  fluttered  out  from  between 
the  pages  and  fell  exactly  on  Hugo's  mouth.  He  knew 
what  it  must  be,  he  could  feel  the  leaf  gently  moving  with 
every  breath  he  drew ;  in  another  instant  the  governor 
must  notice  it. 

That  was  the  last  straw  !  he  had  endured  much,  but  this 
was  too  much  for  him.  He  fainted  away. 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  governor,  "he  seems  to  have 
but  a  dry  library.  I  care  not  for  it.  His  friends  are 
welcome  to  such  books  as  those." 

He  placed  them  in  the  coffin,  and  bent  down  for  a  last 
look  at  the  corpse,  removing  the  oak-leaf  from  its  face. 
As  he  did  so,  his  hand  came  into  contact  with  the  cheek, — 
he  drew  back  with  a  shudder. 

"  He  was  too  hot  last  night,  and,  i'  faith  !  now  he's  too 
cold  by  half!  "  he  remarked,  with  an  uneasy  laugh.  He 
felt  vaguely  sorry  for  the  young  life  cut  off ;  he  wished 


348  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

the  prisoner  had  lived  longer  and  had  put  more  golden 
guineas  into  his  pockets. 

When  Hugo  came  to  himself,  all  was  dark  once  more, 
dark  and  close.  He  gasped  for  breath,  and  involuntarily 
raised  his  hand,  groping  in  the  darkness.  His  fingers 
speedily  came  into  contact  with  the  coffin  lid,  and  this 
recalled  to  him  all  that  had  passed.  Had  he  indeed  be- 
trayed himself?  had  the  governor  seen  that  he  breathed  ? 
The  oak-leaf  was  no  longer  on  his  mouth — that  was 
certain  ;  the  lid  was  screwed  down  again,  that  also  was 
certain.  But  what  if  the  governor  had  insisted  on  his 
being  buried  in  the  prison  graveyard  ?  What  if  Scroop,  to 
save  himself,  should  really  allow  him  to  be  buried  alive  ? 
The  cold  sweat  rose  on  his  forehead  at  the  thought ;  it 
was  all  he  could  do  not  to  scream  aloud,  to  shout  to  all 
the  world  that  he  was  alive,  when  he  felt  his  coffin  raised, 
raised  staggeringly  on  men's  shoulders,  to  be  borne 
— whither  ? 

The  horrible,  swaying  motion,  the  lurching  first  to  one 
side,  then  to  the  other,  as  he  was  lifted  up,  made  him 
turn  faint  once  more.  When  he  again  came  to  himself,  he 
was  being  borne  swiftly  along,  and  he  could  distinguish 
that  they  were  in  the  street,  for  there  were  sounds  of 
horses'  hoofs,  sounds  of  wheels,  sounds  of  many  feet  and 
many  voices.  A  fresh  terror  seized  him.  What  if  the 
governor  had  insisted  on  sending  his  corpse  to  his  brother 
instead  of  to  the  Denhams  ?  That  would  be  worst  of  all, 
worse  even  than  the  prospect  of  being  buried  alive.  He 
tried  to  make  out  in  what  direction  he  was  being  carried, 
but  in  vain,  and  it  was  not  until  he  heard  Jeremiah's 
unmistakable  cough  echoing  sepulchrally  beneath  him 
that  he  began  to  feel  reassured.  Jerry  he  knew  would  die 
rather  than  take  him  to  Randolph. 

And  then  hope  rose  again  for  him,  an  ecstasy  of  hope, 
and  he  laughed  to  himself  with  silent  delight  as  he  heard 
the  sweet,  shrill  voice  of  a  girl  chanting  the  familiar  street- 
cry, 

"  Here  are  fine  golden  pippins,  who'll  buy  them,  who'll  buy? 

Nobody  in  London  sells  better  than  I.    Who'll  buy  them,  who'll  buy  ?  " 

It  took  him  back  to  Mondisfield,  to  that  first  day  when 
little  Evelyn  had  run  after  him  with  the  king-pippins. 
That  was  in  reality  only  eighteen  months  ago,  but  it 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  349 

seemed  to  him  more  like  eighteen  years.  And  then  once 
more  the  rapture  of  the  thought  that  this  was  the  first  stage 
of  his  journey  to  Joyce  overpowered  all  else  ;  he  could  not 
definitely  think,  he  could  only  silently  enjoy,  feeding  on 
that  one  consciousness.  Suddenly  a  little  additional  shak- 
ing, and  a  motion  of  the  coffin  which  made  him  feel  giddy. 
He  knew  that  his  bearers  had  taken  a  turn  to  the  left ; 
they  must  have  turned  down  Norfolk  Street.  Soon  after 
a  pause,  more  shaking,  while  one  of  the  bearers  knocked 
at  a  door,  then  muffled  voices,  and  again  he  was  borne 
on  into  the  house,  and  deposited  jarringly  on  a  table. 
How  soon  would  they  release  him  ?  he  wondered.  Not 
just  yet,  not  till  such  of  the  household  who  were  not  to 
be  admitted  to  the  secret  had  gone  to  bed.  The  waiting 
seemed  long.  At  length  he  heard  anxious  voices  saying 
that  all  was  safe. 

"Indeed  you  ought  to  delay  no  longer,  sir,"  said  old 
Thomas.  "For  the  young  gentleman  was  in  a  swoon 
when  we  closed  the  lid,  and  who  knows  if  he  be  re- 
covered ? " 

Hugo  raised  his  hand  and  beat  on  the  lid  to  reassure 
them. 

Denham  laughed. 

"Ay,  ay,  we  hear  you,"  he  said.  "Come,  Thomas,  be 
quick  and  unscrew  him  ;  he  longs  for  his  resurrection. " 

For  the  second  time  the  lid  was  lifted  ;  Hugo,  dazzled  and 
exhausted,  sat  up,  and  flung  aside  the  shroud,  and  looked 
about  him.  There  stood  his  deliverers,  the  four  bearers 
very  weary  with  their  exertions,  for  they  had  carried  him 
a  lonp;  distance.  Sir  William  with  tears  of  happiness  in 
his  eyes.  Lady  Denham  with  her  motherly  greeting,  and 
Mary  elan  ding  in  the  background,  pale  and  trembling,  but 
yet,  as  his  eyes  met  hers,  coming  forward  to  greet  him 
vritn. "outstretched  hand  and  smiling  face. 


350  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

SUSPENSE. 

O  dear  life!  when  shall  it  be 
That  mine  eyes  thine  eyes  shall  see, 
And  in  them  thy  mind  discover? 
Whether  absence  have  had  force 
Thy  remembrance  to  divorce 
From  the  image  of  thy  lover. 

SIR  PHILIP  SYDNEV. 

THERE  were  a  thousand  things  to  be  discussed  and  ar* 
ranged,  and  first,  as  Ducasse  was  preparing  to  leave,  Hugo 
drew  him  aside  and  spoke  with  him  about  his  master  ; 
then,  when  the  French  valet  had  gone  home  all  aglow 
with  the  thanks  and  rewards  he  had  received,  Sir  William 
set  forth  his  plan  for  the  next  stage  of  their  journey. 

"  Tis  too  late  for  you  to  pass  the  City  gates  without 
being  too  narrowly  observed,"  he  said;  "  therefore  we 
think  it  will  be  best  if  you  stay  here  till  early  morning, 
when  you  and  Rupert  shall  ride  forth  together,  and  reach 
Bishop-Stortford  before  dark,  lie  there  that  night,  and  push 
on  to  Mondisfield  next  day.  What  think  you  of  that  ? " 

"  You  think  the  delay  is  not  dangerous  ? "  asked  Hugo, 
who  only  longed  to  set  off  that  minute. 

"  Nay,  I  see  not  what  danger  can  befall  you  now. 
Your  brother  is  not  like  to  get  news  of  your  death  until 
to-morrow,  and  by  the  time  he  comes  here  you  will  be 
far  away,  and  the  coffin  safely  buried." 

"Where  is  he  to  be  buried?"  asked  Rupert,  laughing. 

"In  our  family  grave,"  said  Sir  William,  who  had  not 
undertaken  to  rescue  Hugo  without  carefully  planning  all 
the  details  of  the  escape.  "  I  have  already  asked  young 
Mr.  Sacheverell  to  read  the  service  to-morrow  at  noon, 
and  by-the-by,  Thomas,  it  might  be  as  well  if  you  now 
fetched  in  the  earth.  Go  help  him,  Rupert ;  the  box  stands 
in  my  laboratory." 

Hugo  was  delighted  to  help  in  the  filling  up  of  his 
coffin,  and  when,  for  the  last  time,  the  lid  had  been 
screwed  down,  they  removed  it  into  an  adjoining  room, 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  351 

and  Thomas  brought  in  supper,  for  which  they  were  all 
quite  ready.  It  was  arranged  that  Jeremiah  should  hire 
two  post-horses,  and  meet  Rupert  and  Hugo  in  a  quiet 
back  street  hard  by.  Here  they  would  mount  unseen, 
and  ride  off  in  the  early  morning  before  the  town  was 
astir.  Jeremiah  would  proceed  to  Harwich  later  in  the 
day,  after  attending  the  funeral,  and  Sir  William  would  be 
fully  prepared  to  receive  any  remonstrances  from  Ran- 
dolph by  reminding  him  that,  as  he  had  disowned  his 
brother  in  life  it  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  he  would 
care  for  him  in  death. 

All  seemed  to  promise  well.  Surely  now  they  were 
secure — surely  now  they  might  rest  on  their  oars — might 
relax  the  strained  anxiety  of  the  last  two  days. 

And  so,  when  the  old  serving-man  had  gone  away,  and 
when  Thomas  had  gone  to  bed,  they  drew  together  over 
the  fire,  and  talked  in  low  voices  of  all  that  had  happened 
during  Hugo's  long  imprisonment,  and  discussed  his 
future,  and  spoke  of  Mondisfield,  of  Colonel  Wharncliffe, — • 
even  of  Joyce.  It  was  not,  however,  until  Hugo  was  left 
for  a  few  minutes  alone  with  Mary  that  he  could  speak 
freely  of  that  which  was  so  near  his  heart  ;  he  felt  so 
secure  of  her  sympathy, — and  surely  this  alone  was  suf- 
ficient to  give  the  lie  to  those  words  the  governor  of  New- 
gate had  let  fall  about  her  ?  Those  words  had  made  Hugo 
vaguely  uncomfortable ;  he  remembered  the  change  that 
had  imperceptibly  come  over  their  friendship  after  he  had 
told  her  of  Joyce  ;  he  remembered  now  little  details  of 
that  night  at  Gray's  Inn — details  which  had  conveyed 
nothing  to  him  at  the  time,  but  which  now  returned  to 
him,  and  filled  him  with  compunction.  Mary's  voice 
startled  him  out  of  these  thoughts. 

'•There  is  one  confession  I  have  to  make  to  you,"  she 
said,  coloring  a  little.  When  you  were  recovered  from 
your  illness  in  February,  I  wrote  and  told  fair  Mistress 
Joyce  that  it  was  well  with  you.  I  meant  to  tell  you  be- 
fore that  I  had  written.  Will  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

"Why  did  you  write?"  asked  Hugo,  more  and  more 
perplexed. 

"I  could  not  bear  her  to  be  unhappy,  and  from  your 
letter  she  must  have  been  prepared  to  think  of  you  as  dead 
or  dying.  I  could  not  see  why  she  need  be  robbed  of  all 
hope.  Was  I  too  bold  to  write  ?  Are  you  angry  with 
me  ?  " 


352  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

"  God  bless  you  for  it !  "  he  said,  taking  her  hand  in  his. 
"You  may  have  saved  her  much.  Oh,  Mary,  you  are 
our  hope-bringer  ;  you  brought  hope  to  me  in  my  prison, 
and  you  sent  it  to  my  dear  love  in  her  sorrow." 

At  that  he  choked,  and  could  not  say  another  word. 
Was  there  naught  left  for  her,  he  wondered  ?  Had  she 
brought  hope  to  them,  and  was  she  to  be  left  desolate  ? 
For  he  could  not  but  perceive  now  that  there  was  truth  in 
the  governor's  words,  though  aware  that  Mary's  love  was 
of  a  type  which  would  have  been  incomprehensible  to  the 
speaker.  Even  he  himself  could  not  realize  that  her 
spiritual  love  gave  her  real  joy  in  his  joy.  He  felt  trou- 
bled for  her — she  divined  his  thoughts. 

"  Do  not  speak  as  if  I  were  some  martyr,  giving  all  and 
taking  nothing,"  she  said,  lightly;  for  so  only  was  it 
possible  to  touch  on  such  a  subject.  "  Believe  me,  Hugo, 
I  have  had  my  share  of  happiness  in  what  you  call  the 
hope-bringing.  Why,  I  brought  hope  to  myself  into  the 
bargain — the  hope  of  saving  you,  of  knowing  you  would 
be  on  your  way  to  Joyce  ere  another  sun  goes  down. 
'Twas  the  happiest  notion  ever  came  to  me  in  a  theatre, 
that  of  your  rescue.  I  hope  you  are  properly  grateful  to 
Mr.  Shakespere,  Mr.  Killigrew,  Mr.  Betterton,  Mrs.  Brace- 
girdle,  and  all  the  actors  and  actresses  who  may  lay  claim 
to  having  a  finger  in  this  pie." 

"I  am  grateful  to  none  of  them,  save  you.  It  was 
your  doing." 

"That  is  enough  to  content  the  soul  of  any  woman," 
she  said,  laughingly,  yet  with  a  deeper  meaning  beneath 
the  words  which  she  intended  him  to  gather.  "  I  shall 
have  to  hand  down  so  brave  a  compliment  as  that  to 
Rupert's  children  and  grandchildren,  that  they  may 
properly  respect  their  kinswoman  who  rescued  a  prisoner 
from  Newgate.  I  did  but  set  the  ball  a-rolling.  Others 
have  had  the  carrying  out,  which  was  far  harder." 

"  I  cannot  yet  take  it  in,"  said  Hugo,  looking  dreamily 
round  the  familiar  room,  which  seemed  so  large  and  lux- 
urious after  his  prison  quarters.  "I  have  dreamed  it  so 
often,  that  I  half  fear  to  wake  now  and  find  it  all  unreal." 

"Have  you  thought  of  your  future?"  asked  Mary. 
"  Shall  you  stay  long  at  Mondisfield?  " 

"No,  that  would  scarce  be  wise  with  such  a  neighbor 
as  Sir  Peregrine  Blake.  I  shall  but  stay  there  for  a  day  or 
two,  and  then  rejoin  Jeremiah  at  Harwich,  and  make  all 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  353 

speed  to  Amsterdam.  They  say  that  is  the  haven  of  all 
exiles  now,  since  the  town  gallantly  refuses  to  give  up 
refugees. " 

And  then  they  drifted  back  to  talking  of  Joyce,  and 
after  a  time  Lady  Denham  returned  with  provisions  for 
the  journey  ;  and  so  in  preparations  and  many  last  words 
the  time  passed  swiftly  by,  till  at  last  the  dawn  broke, 
and  Sir  William  went  to  rouse  Rupert,-  who,  as  the  surest 
way  to  keep  him  sober,  had  been  induced  to  go  to  bed. 

Hugo  longed  for  the  start,  and  yet  dreaded  it.  He 
dreaded  saying  good-bye  to  the  Denhams.  How  good 
they  had  been  to  him  !  How  true  and  loyal  in  their 
friendship  !  How  unlike  the  rest  of  the  world  !  They 
guessed  his  feeling,  and  made  the  parting  as  cheerful  as 
possible,  Rupert  as  usual  jesting  and  teazing,  Sir  William 
and  Lady  Denham  full  of  kind,  hospitable  cares,  Mary 
saying  little,  but  holding  the  spaniel  in  her  arms  and  keep- 
ing him  quiet,  that  he  might  not  disturb  the  household. 

"If  I  could  only  think  I  should  see  you  all  again, "said 
Hugo,  huskily,  when  the  farewells  had  been  said. 

"  Why,  don't  lose  heart  now,  of  all  times, "said  Rupert, 
cheerfully.  "You'll  be  coming  here  ere  long,  and  bring- 
ing your  bride  with  you,  I  dare  swear. " 

They  were  in  the  entrance-hall,  Hugo  involuntarily 
glanced  at  Mary.  She  smiled — a  smile  of  perfect  sympa- 
thy, and  seeing  that  he  turned  impulsively,  again  caught 
her  hand  in  his,  and  kissed  it ;  then,  without  another 
word,  followed  Rupert  out  into  the  gray  morning  twi- 
light. 

All  was  very  still,  not  a  creature  stirred  in  the  silent 
streets.  The  two  did  not  say  much  ;  there  was  somehow 
a  solemn  feeling  about  that  journey  which  they  had  begun. 
Turning  a  corner,  they  came  in  sight  of  Jeremiah  holding 
the  two  horses  in  readiness  for  them.  They  mounted  in 
haste,  and  rode  away  with  scarcely  a  word,  for  all  had 
been  arranged  with  the  old  serving-man  beforehand.  He 
watched  them  out  of  sight,  then  returned  to  the  Denhams' 
house,  ostensibly  to  watch  beside  the  coffin,  but  in  reality 
to  collect  such  things  as  his  young  master  would  need  to 
take  into  exile  with  him. 

Meanwhile  Denham  and  Hugo  passed  through  Temple 
Bar,  upon  which,  among  the  rows  of  heads,  was  set  a 
ghastly-looking  quarter,  but  newly  added  to  the  grim 
collection. 


354 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS: 


"Yonder  is  part  of  the  last  victim  to  the  Plot,"  said 
Denham,  pointing  up  with  his  riding-whip.  ' '  'Twas  Sir 
Thomas  Armstrong,  who  made  the  mistake  of  flying  to 
Leyden  instead  of  to  Amsterdam,  and,  being  brought 
back,  was  hanged  and  quartered  a  few  days  since." 

Hugo  shuddered. 

" I  heard  St.  Sepulchre's  bell  toll,"  he  said.  "But  they 
did  not  tell  me  who  it  was  for." 

The  news  saddened  him,  and  made  him  apprehensive  ; 
he  did  not  breathe  freely  till  they  had  left  the  city  behind 
them,  passed  out  through  Bishopsgate,  and  gained  the 
free,  open  country.  Then  the  rapture  of  escape  and  the 
consciousness  of  comparative  safety  overpowered  all 
other  thoughts,  and  his  spirits  rose  to  the  highest  pitch. 
How  beautiful  was  this  country  road  along  which  he  had 
last  ridden  a  handcuffed  prisoner,  how  green  the  grass 
was,  how  wide  the  great  blue  expanse  of  sky  !  Accus- 
tomed to  the  blank,  white  walls  of  a  cell,  he  was  almost 
intoxicated  by  the  mere  delight  of  color,  the  rich  brown 
earth  freshly  ploughed,  the  red  brick  of  the  cottages,  the 
fresh, , spring  green  of  the  trees,  the  golden  glory  of  butter- 
cups and  celandines.  He  was  like  one  who,  returning 
from  a  long  sea-voyage,  greets  the  earth  anew,  comes  to 
it  once  more  as  to  a  fresh  paradise.  He  could  have 
laughed  with  delight  at  the  mere  sight  of  the  green  fields, 
flat  Essex  fields  though  they  were  ;  the  sun  just  rising 
threw  its  level  beams  over  the  wide  landscape,  the  fresh 
morning  air  made  mere  breathing  a  pleasure,  he  was  free 
once  more,  free  and  on  his  way  to  his  love — what  wonder 
that  the  dark  past  fled  from  him  like  a  dream  of  the  night. 

After  a  while,  hungry  with  their  early  ride,  they  drew 
rein  and  paused  beside  a  field-gate  to  do  justice  to  Lady 
Denham's  provisions,  while  their  horses  cropped  the  grass 
by  the  roadside.  A  flock  of  sheep  were  feeding  in  the 
level,  green  pasturage.  Hugo  watched  them  with  a  sort 
of  fascination,  the  white,  woolly  creatures  had  never 
seemed  beautiful  to  him  before,  but  to-day  he  could  not 
look  long  enough  at  them  ;  even  the  cracked  sheep-bel! 
was  musical,  the  baaing  and  bleating  of  the  lambs  was 
more  delicious  to  his  ears  than  the  finest  concert 

Then  on  once  more  through  the  green  lanes  and 
flowery  banks,  past  hamlet  and  village,  waste  land  and 
town,  until  at  length  in  the  evening  they  reached  Bishop- 
Stortford,  and,  avoiding  the  inn  at  which  he  had  slept 


Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  355 

when  brought  there  as  a  prisoner,  made  their  way  to  a 
smaller  hostelry. 

Then  they  both  began  to  feel  that  the  escape  had  tired 
them.  They  supped  at  once  and  made  all  speed  to  bed,  nor 
troubled  themselves  at  all  with  thoughts  of  pursuit  or 
discovery,  but  slept  all  night  with  never  a  dream  to  dis- 
turb their  peace.  All  had  gone  on  smoothly,  why  should 
they  fear  now  ?  Surely  all  risk  was  over? 

"  Fresh  as  a  daisy,"  was  Rupert's  greeting,  when  Hugo 
came  down  the  next  morning. 

"  Your  lady-love  will  scarce  believe  your  dismal  tales 
of  Newgate  dungeons,  an  you  go  to  her  looking  like 
that." 

"  Have  you  ordered  the  horses?"  asked  Hugo,  eagerly, 
only  longing  to  start  without  delay. 

"Ay,  ay,  they  will  be  here  anon,  but  oddsfish,  man, 
you  would  not  have  us  go  on  empty  stomachs  !  Come, 
sit  down  and  make  a  good  meal,  here  is  trout  such  as  I'll 
warrant  you  have  not  tasted  in  jail." 

They  were  sitting  in  the  inn  parlor,  a  comfortable, 
wainscotted  room,  with  the  ceiling  supported  by  oaken 
beams,  and  the  window  gay  with  spring  flowers.  They 
were  very  merry  over  their  breakfast ;  Denham  told  his 
latest  stories,  and  they  laughed  over  them  as  they  had 
never  had  the  heart  to  laugh  when  he  had  visited  his  friend 
in  Newgate.  For  atmosphere  makes  a  great  difference, 
and  what  atmosphere  could  be  more  exhilarating  than 
that  of  the  cosy  parlor  at  Bishop-Stortford  on  the  morning 
on  which  Hugo  was  to  return  to  Mondisfield. 

"And  so,"  concluded  Rupert,  "as  the  King  played  at 
Pall  Mall  in  the  park,  there  came  to  him  at  the  most  ill- 
convenient  of  times  one  who  brought  him  news "  he 

broke  off  abruptly,  for  Hugo  had  turned  ashy  pale,  and 
rmd  grasped  his  arm. 

"  Hush  !  "  he  cried,  "  for  God's  sake  listen." 

Denham,  much  alarmed,  held  his  breath.  Some  one 
was  coming  down  the  stairs,  and  talking  meanwhile  to 
the  servant. 

"  A  pest  on  your  foolish  pate— did  I  not  bid  you  have 
breakfast  ready  for  me  long  ere  this?  Let  it  be  served 
forthwith,  you  lazy  valet.  What's  that  ?  What  do  you 
say  ! " 

The  voice  was  not  to  be  mistaken,  Rupert  knew  that 
without  doubt  it  was  the  voice  of  Randolph  Wharncliffe. 


356  t&  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

He  was  confounded.  In  all  his  life  he  had  never  known 
such  a  horrible  moment.  Not  dreaming  of  pursuit  they 
had  walked  into  a  trap,  had  by  ill-luck  actually  thrown 
themselves  into  Randolph's  arms. 

But  long  training  in  adversity  had  taught  Hugo  wisdom. 
A  year  before  he  would  have  lost  his  head,  would  infalli- 
bly have  been  taken  as  he  was  at  the  table.  He  had  not 
lived  through  those  months  of  misery  for  nothing.  Quick 
as  lightning  he  sprang  forward  ;  in  one  glance  he  had  taken 
in  the  whole  of  the  room,  and,  before  Denham  had  time  to 
wonder  what  he  was  about  to  do,  had  sought  the  sole 
shelter  the  place  afforded.  By  the  side  of  the  hearth  was 
a  cupboard ;  he  flung  open  the  door,  glanced  in,  saw  that 
amid  faggots,  mops,  tallow-dips,  and  rush-lights  was  just 
room  for  him  to  hide,  and  without  a  moment's  hesitation 
sprang  in.  Denham,  darting  forward,  locked  the  door 
upon  him  and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket ;  then,  with  an 
agility  which  would  have  made  any  spectator  laugh, 
rushed  back  to  his  place  at  the  table,  and,  when  the  door 
of  the  parlor  opened,  had  his  face  well  buried  in  a  huge 
tankard  of  ale. 

As  he  drank  he  thought, — he  was  not  good  at  forming 
schemes  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  but  now  his  desper- 
ation and  determination  that  come  what  might  he  must 
save  his  friend,  stimulated  him  to  unwonted  exertion. 
As  an  actor  he  was  in  his  element,  and,  the  plan  once 
formed,  he  might  be  trusted  to  carry  it  through  with 
credit. 

"First-rate  home-brewed,  that !  "  he  remarked,  setting 
down  the  tankard,  and  stooping  to  wipe  his  mouth  on  the 
table-cloth. 

"  What,  Denham  !  "  exclaimed  Randolph  Wharncliffe, 
who  had  come  into  the  room,  and  was  looking  discon- 
tentedly at  the  table,  which  showed  no  preparation  for 
his  breakfast. 

Then  he  remembered  that  since  his  conduct  to  Hugo 
the  Denhams  had  had  nothing  to  say  to  him,  and  he 
turned  away  with  an  oath,  vexed  that  he  had  been  startled 
into  a  greeting  which  would  not  be  returned. 

"  I  did  not  think  to  meet  you  here,"  said  Denham  in  a 
grave  voice.  The  voice  was  so  unlike  his  own  that  Ran- 
dolph turned  and  looked  at  him.  Rupert  was  paler  than 
usual,  his  face  was  sterner. 

"lam  on  my  way  to  Newmarket,"  said  Randolph, 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  357 

surprised  that  his  first  remark  should  have  called  forth 
any  response.  Then,  with  an  uneasy  attempt  at  jovial 
carelessness,  "  And,  by-the-bye,  now  I  think  of  it,  I  am  in 
your  debt.  Do  you  remember  the  supper  we  had  a  year 
last  October  in  that  country-inn  ?  " 

"Ay,"  said  Denham,  gravely.      "I  remember." 

"An  I  recollect  aright,  you  took  twenty  to  one  that 
Hugo  would  never  succeed  at  court.  Well,  I  own  myself 
beaten.  Hugo  hath  failed  miserably,  hath  defeated  all 
my  hopes." 

"Ay,  he  hath  defeated  them  in  a  way  you  little  reckoned 
on,"  said  Denham,  with  an  angry  flash  in  his  dark  eyes. 
"Sir,  I  must  speak  plainly  with  you.  I  did  not  think 
to  meet  you  here,  but  I  am  the  bearer  of  a  message 
which  perchance  will  not  be  wholly  welcome  to  your 
ears. " 

"Do  not  trouble  yourself  to  deliver  messages  from 
Hugo.  Have  I  not  told  you  that  I  have  disowned  him. 
He  is  naught  to  me.  Quit  the  subject,  sir,  at  once.  I 
will  hearken  to  no  message  from  him." 

' '  You  will  never  have  to  hearken  to  words  of  his  again, " 
said  Denham,  looking  him  full  in  the  face.  "I  am  the 
bearer  of  a  message  to  you,  but  not  from  him.  My  father 
thought  you  ought  to  be  informed  that  your  brother  is 
dead." 

"  Dead  !  "  exclaimed  Randolph,  incredulously. 

"  Dead,"  repeated  Denham,  in  his  coldest  voice.  "  But 
really,  sir,  it  can  be  a  matter  of  little  interest  to  you,  see- 
ing that  you  have  ceased  to  regard  him  as  one  of  your 
kith  and  kin." 

Randolph  made  no  reply,  but  fell  back  in  the  nearest 
chair.  His  face  had  become  livid.  Rupert  continued, 
rather  cruelly, 

"I  suppose  his  death  disconcerts  your  plans.  "Dead 
men  tell  no  tales,"  as  the  proverb  hath  it.  In  this  case 
dead  men  can  unfortunately  not  give  evidence.  An  you 
wished  your  brother  to  do  that,  you  should  not  have  left 
him  to  pine  away  his  life  in  Newgate." 

Randolph  made  no  reply,  but  feeling  Denham's  re- 
proachful gaze  intolerable,  he  bent  forward  and  hid  his 
face  in  his  hands. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Denham,  thinking  it 
came  from  the  cupboard,  started  violently.  The  servant 
entered,  set  down  a  pile  of  plates  on  the  table,  and  then, 


358  fJV  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

to  Denham's  dismay,  crossed  the  room  and  tried  to  ope« 
the  cupboard  door. 

"Don't  loiter  about  in  here,"  he  said,  sharply.  "Get 
what  you  want  elsewhere  ;  this  gentleman  does  not  wish 
to  be  disturbed  ;  he  hath  private  affairs  to  discuss  with 
me." 

"Your  pardon,  sir,  'tis  but  a  fagot  I  want  from  the 
cupboard  ;  but  drat  the  door,  I  do  declare  it  must  be 
bewitched. " 

"Damn  you  and  the  fagots  too  !  "  said  Rupert,  wrath- 
fully.  "Get  you  gone,  and  fetch  your  firing  from  else- 
where. Can  you  not  see  that  this  gentleman  wishes  to 
be  alone  ? " 

The  servant  glanced  at  the  bowed  figure,  and  with  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders  left  the  room.  Denham  breathed 
more  freely.  But  the  danger  was  by  no  means  past. 
Randolph  raised  a  haggard  face  when  the  door  had  closed 
behind  the  servant, 

"  How  did  he  die?  "  he  asked,  hoarsely. 

"  He  had  had  one  of  his  ague-fits  the  day  before,  and 
next  morning  Scroop,  the  jailer,  went  into  his  cell  and 
found  him  cold  as  a  stone.  The  only  wonder  is  that  he 
hath  survived  so  much." 

"Curse  their  folly  !  "  said  Randolph,  bitterly.  "  They 
told  me  he  was  better — they  told  me  he  got  daily  stronger. 
They  told  me  he  was  well  lodged  and  well  fed,  and  that 
you  did  all  that  was  permitted  for  his  comfort. " 

"  That  was  true  enough,"  said  Rupert.  ' '  We  did  what 
we  could — and  for  Newgate  he  was  not  ill-lodged.  But 
you  know  what  this  winter  hath  been.  Three  prisoners 
died  before  him  in  the  same  room.  Was  Hugo  such  a 
Hercules  that  he  should  live  when  all  others  perished? 
You  know  well  enough  that  his  strength  never  was  any- 
thing to  boast  of.  Why,  even  old  Busby  had  to  temper 
his  floggings  when  Hugo  was  in  question.  You  should 
have  taken  a  leaf  out  of  his  book." 

To  his  surprise,  Randolph's  hard  face  began  to  work 
convulsively.  Again  he  bowed  his  head.  There  was 
silence  in  the  room,  broken  only  by  the  strong  man's  sobs. 

In  the  mean  time,  from  his  hiding-place  Hugo  had 
watched  the  whole  scene.  Tremblingly  he  had  seen 
Randolph's  entrance,  had  listened  for  Rupert's  first  words, 
upon  which  so  much  would  hang. 

It  was  long  months  since  he  had  last  seen  his  brother ; 


Ifr  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  359 

he  watched  him  intently,  and  instinctively  knew  that  the 
change  in  his  expression  was  a  change  for  the  worse. 
But  yet  the  sight  of  him  moved  him  greatly — moved  him 
so  much  that  he  forgot  his  fear,  forgot  the  terrible  risk  he 
ran,  forgot  that  everything  depended  on  the  interview 
which  he  was  watching.  It  was  so  strange  to  be  thus  an 
unseen  spectator  that  he  really  felt  as  though  he  were 
dead,' — as  if  Rupert's  words  were  strictly  true.  He  list- 
ened with  the  strangest  feeling  to  the  account  of  his  own 
illness  and  death ;  he  watched  Randolph's  face  with 
interest  and  sympathy,  even  with  a  sort  of  joy.  After  all, 
his  brother  had  not  then  in  reality  disowned  him.  He 
had  uttered  the  cold  words,  but  in  his  heart  had  all  the 
time  cared  for  him.  He  grieved  for  him  now — grieved 
for  him,  not  for  the  defeat  of  his  own  plans  ;  that  was 
cruel  of  Rupert  to  suggest  such  a  thing, — Randolph's  face 
gave  the  lie  to  any  idea  of  that  kind.  When  he  saw  him 
bow  his  head  to  hide  his  grief  from  Denham's  stern  gaze, 
it  was  all  he  could  do  not  to  make  his  presence  known. 
How  could  he  let  his  brother  suffer  thus  ?  How  could  he 
let  him  live  all  his  life  long  with  this  weight  on  his  con- 
science? It  was  intolerable.  He  must  reveal  himself, 
must  put  an  end  to  this  ghastly  farce. 

At  that  moment  the  entrance  of  the  servant  had  scat- 
tered all  his  thoughts  to  the  winds.  He  suddenly  realized 
what  discovery  would  mean.  It  would  mean  terrible 
danger  to  all  who  had  befriended  him,  it  would  mean  risk 
to  Colonel  Wharncliffe,  it  would  mean  an  end  to  all  hopes 
of  seeing  Joyce.  For  Randolph  would  never  forgive  the 
deception  that  had  been  practised  upon  him. 

Panic  seized  Hugo  as  the  servant  shook  and  rattled  the 
cupboard  door ;  his  breath  came  fast  and  hard,  great  drops 
of  perspiration  stood  on  his  forehead.  The  servant  left 
the  room,  but  there  was  no  knowing  that  he  would  not 
return,  there  was  no  knowing  that  Randolph's  suspicion 
might  not  be  awakened  by  so  strange  a  circumstance  as 
a  cupboard  door  which  would  not  open  and  a  traveller 
wno  had  left  his  breakfast  half  eaten.  Through  the  key- 
hole he  could  see  all  with  terrible  distinctness  :  the  chair 
which  he  had  lately  occupied  pushed  back,  the  unfinished 
plate  of  fish,  the  fragment  of  a  manchet ;  Randolph  sitting 
opposite  all  this,  unobservant  as  yet,  his  face  hidden  by 
the  long,  curled  wig  which  drooped  low  on  the  table  ; 
Denham  glaring  across  at  him,  anxiety,  fear,  perplexity, 


360  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

all  contending  for  the  mastery  in  his  face, — for,  as  his 
enemy's  head  was  bowed  for  an  instant,  he  had  ceased  to 
be  an  actor,  was  simply  the  embarrassed  friend,  schem- 
ing in  vain  to  get  this  dangerous  man  off  the  premises. 
Hugo  watched  it  all  as  if  he  had  been  watching  a  scene 
at  the  play  ;  the  sunshine  crept  in  through  the  lattice 
window  and  lit  up  Randolph's  gray  doublet  and  crimson 
baldrick,  gleamed  too  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword.  Every 
detail  was  keenly  noted  by  the  silent  watcher.  He  even 
noticed  the  silver-handled  riding  whip  with  the  same 
heavy  leathern  thong  which  he  had  good  reason  to  re- 
member. How  handsome  Denham  looked  too  with  his 
merry  face  grave  and  stern,  with  anxious  thought  in  the 
usually  careless  eyes  ! 

Once  more  a  servant  entered,  this  time  a  comely  girl  in 
red  petticoat,  gray  cloth  waistcoat,  gray  linsey-woolsey 
apron,  scarlet  neckerchief  knotted  in  front,  and  snowy 
cap.  She  too  had  a  try  at  the  cupboard  door.  By  this 
time  Hugo  had  grown  philosophic,  had  schooled  himself 
into  quiet,  almost  into  indifference.  The  girl  gave  it  up, 
and,  going  to  the  table,  began  to  clear  a  place  for 
Randolph. 

"You  have  finished,  sir  ?  "  she  said,  turning  to  Denham. 

"Ay,  clear  the  decks,"  he  said,  carelessly. 

"The  other  young  gentleman,  sir,  hath  he  done  ?  " 

"Ay,  he  has  done  too." 

Randolph  looked  up. 

"  You  are  not  alone,  then  ?"  he  asked,  glancing  across 
the  table. 

"Yes,  I  am  alone,"  said  Denham,  coolly.  "But,  as  ill- 
luck  would  have  it,  I  fell  in  with  an  old  acquaintance  on  the 
road,  and  he  chose  to  put  up  at  this  inn,  which,  in  truth, 
is  not  so  good-an  one  as  the  other  lower  down.  He  was 
on  his  way  to  Newmarket,  but  I  need  accompany  him 
no  further  on  the  road,  for  now  that  I  have  found  you  I 
shall  return  to  London." 

"I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Randolph,  raising  a  tankard 
of  ale  to  his  lips  with  a  hand  which  visibly  trembled.  "  I 
must  attend  my  brother's  funeral. " 

"Then  if  we  mean  to  do  that  we  must  lose  no  time," 
said  Denham.  ' '  I  rode  off  in  haste,  but  there  was  a 
rumor  in  the  house  that  the  funeral  would  have  to  take 
place  speedily.  Unless  vre  start  off  at  once  I  doubt  we 
shall  be  too  late." 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  361 

"I  am  ready  to  follow  you,"  said  Randolph.  "I  have 
no  stomach  for  breakfast  after  your  ill  news.  Denham, 
before  God  I  swear  that  I  never  dreamed  imprisonment 
could  harm  a  hair  of  his  head.  I  meant  him  but  to  stay 
there  till  he  yielded." 

Denham  looked  him  in  the  face. 

"Then  you  might  have  known  that  you  were  dooming 
him  to  stay  there  all  his  life,"  he  said,  sternly.  "How 
should  such  as  Hugo  yield  to  you  ?  How  should  light  be 
conquered  by  darkness  ?  But  come,  we  waste  time,  let 
us  have  the  horses  round  and  be  off  at  once.  If  I  speak 
plainly  you  must  pardon  me ;  a  man  does  not  lightly  lose 
a  friend  like  Hugo." 

Before  long  the  horses  were  ready,  the  bills  paid,  the 
servants  feed.  All  was  quiet  in  the  inn-parlor.  Randolph 
had  already  mounted.  Hugo  in  his  cupboard  could  hear 
the  horses  pawing  impatiently.  He  wondered  much  what 
would  happen  to  him — how  he  was  to  be  released  !  Den- 
ham's  loud  voice  penetrated  to  his  still  retreat. 

"Ay,"  he  said,  "I  am  ready  at  last.  Oh,  bide  a  bit, 
though.  Where  the  devil  is  my  tobacco-pouch?  I  must 
have  left  it  in  the  parlor.  Ride  on,  an  you  will ;  I  will 
overtake  you." 

The  horses'  hoofs  were  plainly  heard  without.  Ran- 
dolph must  indeed  have  started.  Then  came  quick  foot- 
steps in  the  passage,  and  Denham  rushed  into  the  room, 
unlocked  the  door  in  a  trice,  and  dragged  out  his  friend. 

"Safe  !  "  he  gasped.  "Make  all  speed  to  Mondisfield, 
and  fly  the  country  as  soon  as  may  be.  Things  may  leak 
out ;  do  not  linger." 

Then,  before  Hugo  could  speak  one  word  of  thanks, 
before  he  could  even  bid  him  farewell,  he  was  off  once 
more,  and  the  next  minute  Hugo  saw  him  pass  the  window 
on  his  horse,  making  all  the  haste  he  could  to  rejoin 
Randolph. 

Hugo  locked  the  cupboard,  dropped  the  key  at  a  little 
distance,  then  called  boldly  for  his  bill,  ordered  his  horse 
to  be  brought  to  the  door,  packed  his  saddle-bags,  and  in 
another  quarter  of  an  hour  had  left  Bishop-Stortford  behind 
him,  and  was  on  his  way  to  Mondisfield. 

At  first,  thoughts  of  Randolph  disturbed  his  peace,  but 
soon  all  faded  save  the  consciousness  that  he  was  on  his 
way  to  Joyce,  that  ere  the  sun  went  down  her  sorrow 
would  be  ended,  that  in  a  few  hours'  time  he  should  once 


362  IN  THE  GOLDEN'  DAYS. 

more  clasp  her  to  his  heart,  tell  her  how  he  had  kept  his 
promise,  and  had  come  back  as  she  had  bidden  him.  He 
was  tired,  desperately  tired,  for  the  strain  of  the  last  few 
days  had  been  great,  and  the  long  ride  was  exhausting,  spite 
of  the  hope  which  kept  him  up.  Yet  how  different  was 
the  pain  and  weariness  from  that  which  he  had  endured 
on  the  summer  day  when  he  had  last  ridden  along  that 
road !  His  heart  danced  within  him  as  he  galloped  on, 
past  the  wayside  cottages,  through  the  village  where  the 
children  had  given  him  the  water,  over  the  heathy  plain, 
till  at  length  the  cross-roads  were  reached,  and  he  knew 
that  there  was  but  a  mile  to  Mondisfield. 

The  horse  began  to  show  symptoms  of  fatigue,  for  he 
had  had  a  hard  journey,  and  but  little  rest ;  and  as  to  the 
rider,  he  was  so  worn  out  that  he  could  hardly  keep  his 
seat.  He  bent  low  over  the  horse's  neck,  too  weary  to 
sit  upright,  and  yet,  spite  of  all,  his  heart  was  bounding 
with  happiness.  Had  he  not  been  so  physically  exhausted, 
he  would  have  sung  aloud  for  very  gladness.  They  were 
going  at  a  foot  pace,  for  the  ground  sloped  a  little,  when 
all  at  once  they  came  to  the  old  black  barn  by  the  road- 
side. Hugo's  heart  gave  a  great  throb  of  joy  as  he  caught 
sight  of  it.  Then  slowly  they  rounded  the  corner,  and 
came  into  sight  of  the  three  elm-trees  at  the  gate  of  Mon- 
disfield Park. 

"  My  God  !  "  he  exclaimed.      "  My  God  I  " 

Griffith  might  have  been  shocked,  yet  the  ejaculation 
was  but  the  natural  outburst  of  a  heart  filled  to  overflow- 
ing with  long-deferred  joy. 

For  on  the  grassy  mound  at  the  foot  of  the  trees  sat 
Joyce.  Joyce,  with  her  light  curls  gently  stirred  by  the 
wind,  with  her  sweet  face  gravely  bent  over  a  hatful  of 
primroses,  which  she  was  sorting  and  tying  in  bunches. 
Very  sweet,  but  very  wistful,  did  she  look.  He  had  time 
to  note  the  change  in  her  ere  she  looked  up,  indeed  he 
was  close  to  her  before  she  became  aware  of  the  horse's 
hoofs  on  the  road,  and  raised  her  eyes  to  see  whether  by 
chance  it  might  be  the  post  with  a  letter  from  her  father. 

Ah,  what  was  this  ?  She  saw  him,  she  recognized  him, 
but  yet  made  no  movement  towards  him,  uttered  no  cry 
of  joy,  smiled  no  smile  of  relief ;  but,  rising  to  her  feet, 
stood,  with  wide-open  eyes  and  blanched  face,  clutching 
at  one  of  the  trees  as  though  to  support  herself.  She  was 
not  glad  to  see  him ;  she  was  terrified.  Oh,  what  had 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  FA  363 

happened  ?    There  surely  could  be  but  one  thing  which 
would  make  her  fear  to  meet  him. 

He  was  conscious  of  a  sharp  stab  of  pain  at  his  heart, 
then  of  a  wild,  blind  impulse  which  made  him  throw  him* 
self  from  his  horse  and  rush  towards  her. 
•    "  Joyce  !  "  he  cried,   "  Joyce  !  my  love  !  my  love  !  " 

She  shrank  back,  trembling,  white,  terrified.  It  was 
more  than  he  could  endure  ;  with  a  low  cry  he  fell  forward 
— fell  on  the  grass  at  her  feet 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

UNDER  THE  APPLE-TREES. 

Wept  they  had,  alas  the  while  1 
But  now  tears  themselves  did  smile, 
While  their  eyes,  by  love  directed, 
Interchangeably  reflected. 

SIR  PHILIP  SYDNEY. 

IN  those  days,  at  any  rate  in  those  remote  country  dis- 
tricts, the  belief  in  ghosts  was  much  more  prevalent  thaa 
in  the  nineteenth  century.  Joyce,  looking  up  from  her 
primroses  on  that  spring  afternoon,  and  seeing  before 
her  what  she  took  to  be  a  white  phantom  horse,  with 
the  wraith  of  her  lover,  shrank  back  in  unconquerable 
dread.  Her  heart  beat  so  fast  that  it  nearly  stifled  her, 
she  stared  in  dread  fascination  at  that  spectral  figure, 
which  was  Hugo,  and  yet  which  was  not  Hugo,  for  the 
face  was  pale  and  transparent,  the  eyes  shone  strangely, 
he  looked  altogether  unearthly. 

It  was  now  five  months  since  the  tidings  of  his  death 
had  reached  her,  the  news-letter  which  contradicted  this 
intelligence  had  been  lost  in  one  of  the  winter  storms, 
Mary's  letter  had  shared  the  same  fate,  it  was  impossible 
that  she  could  think  this  sudden  return  anything  but  an 
apparition  from  the  other  world,  or  an  hallucination  of 
the  brain. 

The  rapture  in  her  lover's  face,  the  radiant  joy  depicted 
there,  his  changed  voice,  his  altered  form,  all  tended  to 
confirm  her  mistake  ;  strangely  enough  it  was  not  until 


364  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

she  saw  that  look  of  joy  replaced  by  one  of  agony  thai 
she  began  to  doubt, — not  until  she  saw  him  fall  to  the 
ground  at  her  feet  that  she  was  suddenly  convinced  that 
this  was  Hugo  in  the  flesh,  no  dread  visitant  from  another 
world,  but  her  own  lover,  wearied  with  a  long  journey, 
worn  with  illness  and  imprisonment. 

She  burst  into  tears,  and,  hurrying  forward,  managed 
to  turn  his  face  to  the  light,  hoping  that  the  fresh  spring 
wind  would  revive  him  :  she  chafed  his  cold  hands,  she 
called  to  him,  broken-hearted  to  think  what  pain  she  must 
unwittingly  have  given  him, — how  cruel  a  welcome  had 
been  his. 

And  so  presently,  amid  rushing  and  booming  in  his  ears 
as  once  more  he  struggled  back  to  life,  Hugo  became 
aware  of  a  sweet  voice  broken  with  sobs.  How  piteous 
and  yet  how  delicious  it  was  !  he  could  not  stir,  he  dreaded 
breaking  that  magic  spell. 

"Hugo!  Hugo!"  she  cried.  "Dear  love!  Sweet- 
heart !  How  cold,  how  hateful,  I  must  have  seemed  to 
you  !  Oh,  how  could  I  think  it  your  wraith  ?  Yet  they 
told  me  you  were  dead,  Hugo.  Ah,  you  stir,  you  sigh  ! 
Dear  love,  speak  to  me — speak  !  " 

Kneeling  beside  him  on  the  grass,  she  rained  tears  and 
kisses  on  his  face  ;  he  opened  his  eyes  ;  was  it  only  the 
vision  that  had  so  often  come  to  him  in  Newgate,  of  Joyce 
kneeling  beside  him  in  the  copse  by  the  Suffolk  roadside 
on  the  day  of  the  duel  ?  He  looked  at  the  sweet,  tear- 
stained  face,  and  knew  how  different  the  vision  was,  for 
now  she  was  his  own — all  his  own  !  At  the  thought  new 
life,  new  strength  took  possession  of  him.  He  sprang  up, 
wroth  with  himself  for  having  alarmed  her.  She  had 
thought  him  dead,  and  his  sudden  return  was  almost 
enough  to  kill  her.  At  the  thought  he  was  once  again  all 
strength  and  manly  tenderness. 

"My  dear  one,  did  they  send  you  false  tidings  of  my 
death?"  he  cried.  "Had  I  but  known  I  would  have 
written,  would  not  for  the  world  have  broken  on  you  thus 
suddenly. " 

She  wanted  no  explanation,  it  was  enough  for  her  to 
feel  his  arms  round  her,  enough  to  know  that  he  was  alive, 
free,  and  once  more  at  Mondisfield, 

There  was  a  timeless  pause,  into  which  no  fears  or 
cares  obtruded  themselves,  all  but  love  and  joy  were 
crowded  out ;  the  two  so  long  parted  had  each  other  once 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  365 

more,  and  were  unconscious  of  aught  else  in  the  world. 
It  was  the  white  horse  which  at  length  startled  Joyce  into 
some  recollection  of  place. 

They  were  close  to  the  public  road  ;  a  vague  instinct  of 
danger  came  to  trouble  her  perfect  peace. 

"Dear  one,"  she  said,  "are  you  safe  from  pursuit ?  " 

"I  cannot  tell  for  how  long,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh. 
"  But  at  present  I  am  safe.  For  the  next  day  or  two  I 
may  remain  here,  if  your  father  will  permit  me." 

"  My  father  is  abroad,  at  Amsterdam.  You  must  come 
and  let  my  mother  bid  you  welcome,"  said  Joyce.  "  Do 
not  let  us  linger  so  near  the  road,  it  may  be  prudent  to 
keep  your  visit  from  the  village  folk. " 

"You  are  right,"  he  said,  anxiety  once  more  returning 
to  him.  And  yet  there  was  a  certain  sweetness  in  feeling 
that  she  shared  in  the  anxiety,  there  was  bliss  in  seeing 
how  already  she  thought  for  him,  planned  for  him.  He 
led  in  the  white  horse,  which  all  this  time  had  been  dining 
comfortably  on  the  long  grass  by  the  wayside,  and  Joyce 
walked  beside  him  up  the  drive  till  they  came  in  sight 
of  the  dear  old  house,  with  its  brown-tiled  roof,  its  salmon- 
pink  front,  its  familiar  windows.  He  told  her  some  of  the 
details  of  his  escape,  and  then  they  conferred  together  as 
to  the  best  way  of  making  his  presence  known  to  Mrs. 
Wharncliffe.  In  the  end,  Joyce  persuaded  him  to  let  her 
run  on  quickly  to  the  house,  while  he  left  his  horse  in  the 
stable-yard.  He  could  hardly  bear  to  let  her  go  out  of  his 
sight,  but  she  was  afraid  the  sudden  shock  might  be  bad 
for  her  mother,  and,  remembering  how  her  father  had  bid 
her  on  that  last  night  to  be  in  all  things  her  mother's 
helper,  she  could  not  even  now  let  her  happiness  make 
her  careless. 

They  were  all  of  them  country  girls,  could  ride,  run,  and 
swim  to  perfection  ;  but  Joyce  had  never  run  so  fast  as  on 
that  day ;  her  cheeks  were  glowing,  her  eyes  beaming 
with  joy,  when  she  threw  open  the  door  of  the  south  par- 
lor. Mrs.  Wharncliffe  could  only  look  at  her  in  mute 
astonishment. 

"Mother,  dear,"  said  Joyce,  kneeling  beside  her,  and 
trying  to  speak  calmly,  "there  is  no  fresh  news  from 
father,  but  yet  good  news  has  come  to-day  to  Mondis- 
field." 

"  Has  the  post  been  here  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Wharncliffe. 

"  Not  the  post,"  said  Joyce,     "Much  better  than  a  mere 


366  Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

letter.  Oh,  mother,  darling1,  it  was  all  a  mistake  ;  the 
news-letter  did  but  publish  a  false  rumor  about  Hugo. 
He  is  alive,  he  is  free,  he  is  here  !  " 

Waiting  only  for  her  mother's  close  embrace,  scarcely 
hearing  her  words  of  surprise  and  delight,  Joyce  flew  away, 
for  her  quick  ear  had  detected  steps  upon  the  gravel  out- 
side. In  another  minute  she  returned ;  Mrs.  Wharncliffe 
had  risen  to  meet  them,  but  paused,  thinking  perhaps  it 
were  well  that  her  welcome  of  Hugo  should  be  in  the 
south  parlor  rather  than  at  the  front  door.  Once  more  the 
door  was  opened  ;  she  saw  her  little  girl  flushed,  eager, 
radiant  with  happiness,  and  beside  her,  holding  her  hand, 
walked  Hugo.  She  gave  him  a  mother's  greeting,  then 
drew  back  a  step,  looking  at  him  with  a  long,  searching 
look.  It  was  Hugo,  yet  not  Hugo.  Her  feeling  was, 
after  all,  not  unlike  Joyce's  when  she  had  first  caught 
sight  of  him.  The  dreamy,  philosophic  youth,  the  boy 
who  had  yielded  to  that  dread  temptation  in  the  gallery, 
the  lad  who  had  afterwards  so  nearly  succumbed  to  his 
brother's  will  when  Colonel  Wharncliffe  lay  in  hiding,  was 
no  more.  Not  a  year  had  passed  since  that  dread  sum- 
mer day,  but  the  time  had  been  long  enough  with  Hugo. 
He  looked  many  years  older ;  he  had  come  back  to 
Mondisfield  a  man.  The  broad  forehead  and  the  quiet 
eyes  were  as  pure  as  ever,  but  shone  with  a  light  that  was 
new  and  strange ;  the  loyalty  which  had  once  belonged 
solely  to  Randolph  had  deepened  and  widened.  He  was 
no  longer  the  blind  tool  of  another,  but  the  devoted  love, 
the  noble  constancy,  had  been  turned  into  its  true  course. 

It  is  ever  those  who  are  willing  to  lose  their  life  that  shall 
verily  find  it ;  and  that  which  was  true  and  good,  even 
though  misdirected  in  the  old  life,  shall  be  truer  and  bet- 
ter in  the  new.  For  man's  life  is  like  a  stream  ;  pain  and 
trial  are  but  the  dams  which  drive  back  the  water  to  its 
rightful  channel — and  that  which  was  pure  and  sparkling 
on  its  way  to  the  black  morass  is  pure  and  bright  and  a 
thousandfold  stronger  when,  turned  in  its  course,  it  joins 
the  river  and  is  borne  on  seawards. 

"Hugo,"  said  Mrs.  Wharncliffe,  with  a  smile,  after  the 
first  greetings  and  questions  were  over,  "  will  you  blame 
me  if  I  treat  you  now  at  once  as  my  son  ?  In  truth  I  was 
in  sore  need  of  one  to  help  me,  for  in  three  days'  time  we 
are  to  leave  this  place  and  to  rejoin  my  husband." 

"You  are  to  go  to  Holland  1  "  exclaimed  Hugo,  with 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  367 

delight.  "Then  you  will  let  me  travel  with  you,  and 
serve  you  so  far  as  I  am  able.  I  do  not  think  my  brother 
is  likely  to  insist  on  exhuming  my  body,  and  in  no  other 
way  is  the  truth  likely  to  be  betrayed,  therefore  I  do  not 
think  my  presence  could  in  any  way  endange  you." 

"In  truth  you  will  be  the  greatest  comfort,"  said  Mrs. 
Wharncliffe  "for  you  know  the  world  and  the  ways  of 
travelling,  whereas  I  for  many  years  have  never  been 
further  than  to  St.  Edmondsbury  in  my  own  coach.  But, 
come !  we  must  not  keep  you  here  talking  of  the  future, 
I  will  show  you  to  the  guest-chamber,  and  you,  little 
Joyce,  run  and  bid  them  bring  in  supper  speedily.  Hugo 
must  be  hungry  after  his  long  ride." 

Hugo  changed  his  dusty  travelling  dress  for  one  of  the 
fresh  suits  which  the  Denhams  had  prepared  for  him.  He 
took  great  pleasure  in  donning  clothes  which  had  never 
seen  the  inside  of  Newgate,  and  the  mere  consciousness 
that  he  was  once  more  in  a  free,  open,  country  house  was 
in  itself  exquisite.  How  pure  and  sweet  the  old  guest- 
chamber  seemed  to  him,  how  fresh  the  wainscotted  walls, 
the  chintz  curtains,  the  white  bed  in  its  deep  recess.  And 
about  all  was  that  indescribable  smell  of  the  country 
which,  ever  noticeable  to  townbred  folk,  was  doubly 
delicious  to  Hugo  after  his  long  imprisonment.  It  made 
him  think  of  the  scene  in  the  House  Beautiful,  which  he 
knew  almost  by  heart  from  constant  reading: — "The 
pilgrim  they  laid  in  a  large,  upper  chamber,  whose  win- 
dow opened  towards  the  sun-rising ;  the  name  of  the 
chamber  was  Peace." 

Presently  in  the  country  stillness  he  caught  the  sounds 
of  a  child's  merry  voice,  and  knew  that  it  must  be  little 
Evelyn.  Going  down  the  broad  oak  staircase  he  made 
his  way  to  the  hall,  but,  before  any  painful  recollections 
could  return  to  him,  his  thoughts  were  altogether  diverted 
by  the  eager  welcome  which  he  received  from  every  one 
of  his  cousins.  They  could  not  make  enough  of  him,  the 
joy  of  his  return  from  what  they  had  deemed  the  grave 
overpowered  their  natural  shyness.  Taken  up  with  the 
anxiety  to  do  honor  to  the  man  who  had  saved  their  father 
they  forgot  themselves,  forgot  to  wonder  whether  he 
would  think  them  rustic  and  countrified,  forgot  to  be 
afraid  of  the  courtly  London  gentleman  even  when  most 
conscious  how  different  he  was  from  the  bluff,  country 
squires  around.  It  was  worth  all  that  Hugo  had  been 


368  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

through  to  sit  at  that  cheerful  supper-table  in  the  old  hall 
with  those  happy  faces  beaming  on  him,  with  Joyce  by 
his  side,  with  the  mother  at  the  head  of  the  table,  anxious 
and  careworn,  but  yet  with  such  deep  relief  on  her  brow. 

Later  on  Mrs  Wharncliffe  sat  with  him  in  the  north 
parlor,  and  he  gave  her  a  more  detailed  account  of  his  im- 
prisonment than  he  had  cared  to  give  before  the  rest  of 
the  family.  Then  when  her  questions  had  all  been  an- 
swered, and  there  came  a  momentary  pause  in  the  conver- 
sation, he  raised  his  quiet  gray  eyes  to  her  face  with  the 
question  which  he  had  been  longing  to  put  to  her  evei 
since  his  arrival. 

"Joyce  has  told  you  of  our  love,  madam,"  he  began, 
steadying  his  voice  with  some  difficulty.  "Your  wel- 
come makes  me  hope  that  you  will  not  wholly  forbid  my 
suit.  Will  you  pardon  me  for  having  spoken  to  her  ere 
asking  your  consent  ?  I  thought  I  should  never  see  her 
again — I  was  carried  away — I  could  not  keep  silence." 

"  I  will  not  say  that  I  did  not  regret  it  at  first,"  said  Mrs. 
Wharncliffe,  smiling.  "I  deemed  Joyce  over  young. 
But  I  do  not  blame  you  for  speaking  that  day — I  well 
understand  that  you  could  not  bear  to  leave  the  place  with- 
out telling  her." 

"Yes,  it  was  that,"  said  Hugo,  eagerly.  "The  going 
away  forever  as  I  thought  and  never  telling  her  that  'twas 
love  of  her  that  made  it  sweet,  that  'twas  love  of  her  that 
gave  me  strength  to  resist. " 

"And  are  you  still  sure  of  your  own  mind  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Wharncliffe.  "You  have  seen  much  of  the  world,  you 
have  doubtless  met  many  women  more  brilliant  than  my 
little  country  maid.  Are  you  quite  sure  that  you  do  well, 
in  all  seriousness,  to  ask  her  to  be  your  wife  ?  " 

"Of  that  I  could  never  doubt,"  he  said,  eagerly.  "  My 
only  doubt  is  whether  I  am  fit  for  her.  I  c?  n  never  for- 
get how  in  this  house  I  was  once  a  treacherous  guest, 
how  all  this  misery  hath  been  wrought  by  me." 

Looking  at  him  Mrs.  Wharncliffe  was  that  it  was  not 
alone  the  illness  and  the  hardships  of  Newgate  which  had 
made  him  so  many  years  older.  Men  do  not  repent  as 
Hugo  had  repented,  and  yet  bear  no  traces  of  the  agony. 
There  was  something  reverential  in  her  manner  as  she 
kissed  his  forehead. 

"My  dear  son,"  she  said,  "did  you  deem  yourself 
wholly  fit,  perhaps  I  might  hesitate.  But  methinks  you 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  Ki  369 

have  learnt  in  these  months  that  which  my  mind  makes 
all  the  pain  and  misery  worth  while.  Right  gladly  shall 
I  entrust  to  you  my  little  maid." 

So  the  next  morning,  when  Joyce  went  out  with  her 
basket  of  grain  to  feed  the  pigeons,  Hugo  strolled  out  into 
the  pleasance.  The  turf  felt  like  velvet  beneath  his  feet, 
the  thick  box  hedge,  with  its  sweet,  indescribable  smell, 
brought  back  to  his  remembrance  the  grassy  walks  in  the 
garden  at  Penshurst ;  but  that  morning  even  sorrow  was 
sweet,  he  could  think  of  his  friend  as  at  peace,  working 
perhaps  in  some  larger  sphere  and  safe  for  ever  from  his 
enemies.  Musing  thus  he  passed  the  willow  arbor  and 
the  sun-dial,  and  made  his  way  along  the  grassy  apple- 
walk. 

Presently  a  whirr  of  wings  made  him  look  through  the 
trees  to  the  red-tiled  pigeon-cote.  There  was  a  sudden 
dispersion,  for  the  pigeons  had  had  their  breskfast,  and 
Joyce  with  her  empty  basket  appeared  at  the  end  of  the 
walk.  She  wore  a  white  linen  gown  with  large  puffed 
sleeves,  and  in  her  waistband  she  had  fastened  a  little  bunch 
of  primroses  ;  her  sunny  hair  was  hidden  by  a  blue  French 
hood,  all  but  the  curls  which  invariably  strayed  over  her 
rounded  forehead.  She  saw  him  and  smiled,  and  the 
beautiful  color  rose  in  her  cheeks. 

As  he  watched  her  framed  in  that  sweet  vista  of  green 
grass  and  overarching  trees  laden  with  pink  and  white 
blossom,  he  knew  that  for  him  there  could  be  in  the  whole 
world  no  fairer  sight.  They  met  without  a  word,  with 
only  one  long,  silent  embrace.  Then  he  put  her 
gently  from  him,  much  as  he  had  done  the  summer  day 
in  the  north  parlor  when  recollections  of  Randolph  had 
broken  in  upon  that  momentary  bliss. 

"Will  you  spare  me  a  little  time,"  he  asked,  "now 
that  the  pigeons  are  fed  ?  There  is  much  that  I  would 
fain  say  to  you." 

"Then  say  it  here,"  she  said,  smiling,  "for  this  is  the 
place  of  all  others  I  love  best." 

They  sat  down  on  the  grassy  bank  by  the  side  of  the 
moat,  but  Hugo's  words  did  not  come  readily.  For  the 
first  time  Joyce  felt  a  little  afraid  of  him.  Half  shyly  she 
took  the  primroses  from  her  band  and  fastened  them  in 
his  doublet,  then  made  as  though  she  would  have  taken 
them  away  again. 

' '  Do  you  take  back  your  gifts  ?  "  he  asked,  smiling. 
24 


370  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  I 

"No,  but  you  shall  have  others  flowers,  violets, 
anemones,  but  not  primroses.  They  make  me  think  of 
the  time  beneath  the  elms  when  I  did  not  know  you. 
Dear  love  !  I  shall  never  forgive  myself  that  cold  greet- 
ing. I  shall  ever  hate  the  sight  of  primroses." 

"Nay,  hate  them  not,"  he  said,  quietly.  "And,  in 
truth,  they  meet  my  case  right  well.  Do  you  know,  my 
heart,  the  lines  which  the  poet  Carew  wrote  on  the 
primrose  ? " 

Joyce  did  not  know  them ;  the  only  poets  she  knew 
were  Milton  and  Shakespeare.  She  listened  intently 
while  her  lover  repeated  the  sweet  old  poem  : 

" '  Ask  me  why  I  send  you  here 
This  firstling  of  the  infant  year  ; 
Ask  me  why  I  send  to  you 
This  primrose  all  bepearled  with  dew  ; 
I  straight  will  whisper  in  your  ears, 
The  sweets  of  love  are  washed  with  tears. 
Ask  me  why  this  flower  doth  show 
So  yellow  green,  and  sickly  too  ; 
Ask  me  why  the  stalk  is  weak 
And  bending,  yet  it  doth  not  break  ; 
I  must  tell  you  these  discover 
What  doubts  and  fears  are  in  a  lover.'  " 

"Tis  beautiful ;  but  what  have  you  to  do  with  doubts 
and  fears  ?  "  said  Joyce.  "  You  may  lay  aside  all  fear  of 
pursuit  for  to-day,  at  least.  And  the  doubts  and  fears  of 
a  lover  !  Why,  Hugo,  you  can  never  have  those.  Have 
I  ever  given  you  cause  to  be  troubled  with  those  ?  " 

There  was  such  a  heavenly  light  in  her  eyes  raised  to 
his,  such  exquisite  tenderness  in  the  dimpled  face,  with 
its  tiny  mouth  and  rounded  cheeks,  that  it  was  all  Hugo 
could  do  not  to  fold  her  once  more  in  that  close  em- 
brace. 

"  Dear  love,"  he  said,  after  a  silence,  "  there  is  no  need 
to  tell  you  that  you  have  all  my  heart, — that  I  have  loved 
you  ever  since  our  first  meeting.  But  it  is  but  fitting  that 
you  should  once  more  gravely  consider  whether  you  do 
well  to  give  yourself  to  me.  Remember  that  you  are 
now  free — free  as  ever — for  my  letter  writ  in  Newgate  un- 
loosed you  from  any  promise  you  made  before.  Your 
mother  gives  me  leave  to  speak  to  you  thus  openly, — will 
you  listen  ? " 

' '  Why  would  you  wish  me  to  ?  "  asked  Joyce,  looking 
frightened. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  $fl 

"For  your  own  sake,  my  heart.  Because  I  cannot 
bear  to  think  that  in  a  hasty  moment,  or  from  a  generous 
impulse,  or  perchance  from  some  false  notion  that  I  had 
done  aught  for  your  father,  you  should  give  me  the  rich 
treasure  of  your  love,  and  hereafter  live  to  repent  it" 

She  put  her  hand  before  his  lips. 

"  I  will  not  let  you  say  such  things  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
with  mingled  indignation  and  tenderness. 

"  Nay,  hear  me  out,"  he  said,  kissing  her  fingers  as  he 
drew  them  down.  "You  must  dismiss  from  your  mind 
all  the  sweet  charity,  all  the  tender  excuses  you  have 
hitherto  made  for  me  ;  you  must  consider  whether  you  are 
in  very  truth  willing  to  be  the  wife  of  a  man  who  was  once 
guilty  of  a  grave  crime, — whether  you  are  willing  to  share 
with  him  exile,  and  perchance  disgrace.  My  dear  one, 
my  dear  one,  how  can  I  bear  the  thought  of  this  for  you? 
You  who  ought  to  have  the  bravest,  the  most  unsullied 
heart  in  exchange  !  Oh  !  Joyce,  love  is  not  all  joy ;  it  is 
pain — bitter  pain  !  " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  choked  voice,  "that  is  true  ;  but 
the  pain  is  not  all  on  your  side,  Hugo. " 

"Then  think  it  calmly  over,  as  I  would  have  you  do," 
he  cried.  "Tell  me,  an  you  will,  that  I  had  better  go 
hence.  You  shall  never  be  sacrificed  to  some  inpulse  of 
pity,  some  wish  to  spare  me  suffering." 

"Do  you  think  that  to  send  you  hence  would  make  me 
happier?  "she  asked.  "When  'lam  myself  my  own 
fever  and  pain,'  as  you  sang  last  night.  Oh,  Hugo,  when 
will  you  understand  that  I  love  you  !  Methinks  the  pain 
of  love  is  the  pain  of  one's  own  un worthiness." 

"  Make  me  pure  as  your  own  sweet  self !  "  he  cried. 

But  she  silenced  him  with  a  kiss.  And  thus,  by  the 
side  of  the  moat,  and  under  shelter  of  the  apple-blossom, 
they  sealed  their  betrothal 


372  W  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS, 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

AN   UNEXPECTED   ARRIVAL. 

What?    I!    Hove!    I  sue !    Iseekawife! 

Love's  Labor  List. 

LATE  that  afternoon,  Damaris  and  Robina,  returning 
from  a  farewell  visit  to  one  of  the  neighbors,  arid  emerg- 
ing from  the  ash-walk,  were  surprised  and  alarmed  to  see 
a  stranger  riding  through  the  park.  He  reined  in  his 
horse  at  sight  of  them,  pausing  by  the  second  gate,  which 
opened  on  to  the  bridge.  Damaris  was  a  brave  girl,  but 
she  was  very  much  frightened,  for  she  thought  the 
stranger  might  have  come  in  search  of  Hugo.  She  even 
feared  it  might  be  Randolph  himself.  On  nearer  view, 
however,  she  was  reassured  as  to  this  last  terror,  but 
her  manner  was  cold  and  distant  as  she  offered  to  open 
the  gate  for  the  new-comer.  Rather  to  her  dismay,  he 
hastily  dismounted. 

"Do  not  dream  of  troubling  yourself,"  he  said,  with 
more  show  of  gallantry  than  she  liked.  "In  truth,  I  did 
but  pause  to  ask  you  whether  this  is  indeed  Mondisfield 
Hall." 

"Ay,  sir,"  she  replied  coldly,  "this  is  Mondisfield. 
But  my  father  is  absent, " 

"So  I  am  informed,  but  my  errand  is  not  with  him, 
but  with  Mr.  Hugo  Wharncliffe."  The  stranger  smiled. 

Damaris  trembled.  Her  worst  fears  were  confirmed. 
Hugo's  escape  had  then  been  discovered,  and  this  gentle- 
man— in  all  probability  a  constable  in  disguise — had  come 
to  bear  him  back  to  jail. 

"Mr.  Hugo  Wharncliffe ?"  she  asked,  doubtfully,  gain- 
ing time  for  thought,  and  also  deferring  the  evil  day. 

"Ay,  Hugo  Wharncliffe.     He  is  here,  is  he  not?  " 

"  Who  can  have  told  you  that  he  is  here  ?  "  exclaimed 
Damaris.  "  Mr.  Hugo  Wharncliffe  hath  been  in  jail 
these  many  months,  and  we  are  but  lately  informed  that 
his  remains  were  to  be  buried  by  Sir  William  Denham  in 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  373 

one  of  the  City  churches.  Which  church  was  it  to  be, 
Robina  ?  " 

"St.  Mary's,"  said  Robina,  briskly.  "No,  it  was  not 
though,  an  I  mistake  not,  the  messenger  said  'twas  to  be 
in  St.  Clement  Dane's." 

The  stranger  laughed  uncontrollably. 

"Ay,  ay,  his  London  remains  were  interred  with 
pomp  and  solemnity  at  noon  yesterday.  But  the  best 
part  of  him  escaped,  and  should  ere  now  have  arrived 
here.  Fair  maiden,  you  are  very  slow  to  trust  me  !  And 
in  good  time  here  comes  my  friend  to  vindicate  my 
character. " 

At  that  moment  Hugo  and  Joyce  came  through  the 
doorvvayin  the  red  brick  wall,  leading  from  the  kitchen 
garden  to  the  bowling-green.  Damaris  turned  pale,  and 
in  her  anxiety  looked  so  lovely  that  Denham  hastened  to 
reassure  her. 

"Do  not  be  afraid  !"  he  cried.  "lam  his  friend." 
Then,  as  she  still  looked  troubled  and  perplexed,  he  hur- 
ried forward,  cursing  his  folly. 

"Come,  Hugo!"  he  cried.  "Vindicate  my  honor 
— and  tell  your  fair  kinswoman  chat  I  was  one  of  those 
who  bore  you  from  Newgate.  I'  faith  !  she  takes  me  for 
a  constable  in  disguise — for  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing — 
for  a  foe  to  be  baffled  and  silenced  and  scouted." 

The  two  young  men  greeted  each  other  warmly,  and 
then  followed  the  series  of  introductions  to  each  of  which 
Denham  replied  by  a  sweeping  bow  which  amused  the 
country  girls  and  made  them  slightly  apprehensive  about 
their  curtsies. 

"And  will  you  pardon  me  for  having  affrighted  you  ?  " 
he  asked,  turning  with  one  of  his  humorous  looks  to 
Damaris. 

"You  should  have  spoken  out  plainly  at  once,  sir," 
said  Damaris,  with  severity. 

Denham  made  a  gesture  of  mock  despair  and  turned 
from  her  to  his  friend. 

"Tell  Mistress  Damaris  that  I  henceforth  forswear  the 
sin  of  frivolity  and  idle  jesting  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "But, 
odds-fish  !  my  dear  boy,  how  could  I  help  but  continue 
in  a  strain  which  served  so  excellently  to  draw  forth  her 
wit  and  her  beauty."  Then,  as  they  were  out  of  earshot, 
"Egad,  Hugo,  you  have  surely  made  a  mistake  betwixt 
those  sisters  1  " 


374  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

Hugo  laughed 

'"  I  am  glad  you  think  so  !  "  he  replied,  merrily.  "  G« 
in  and  win." 

"'I  love  my  love  with  a  D,'"  quoted  Denham, 
"  '  because  she's  delightsome.  I  hate  her  with  a  D  because 
she's  disdainful.  Then,  leaving  Hugo  and  rejoining  the 
group  on  the  bridge.  "Fair  Mistress  Damaris,  I  beg  a 
thousand  pardons  for  having  caused  you  any  uneasiness. 
An  I  crave  your  pardon  on  my  bended  knees,  will  you  let 
bygones  be  bygones  ?  " 

"Come,"  said  Hugo,  laughing,  "we  will  take  your 
horse  to  the  stable,  and  Robina  will  apprise  Mrs.  Wharn- 
cliffe  of  your  arrival. " 

So  he  and  Joyce  went  away  with  the  steed,  and  Rupert 
and  Damaris  were  left  alone  on  the  bridge  to  make  the 
peace  as  best  they  could.  Denham  was  enraptured  with 
her  fresh  healthful  beauty,  and  charmed  with  her  down- 
right honesty  and  quiet  self-possession.  She  was  unlike 
any  girl  he  had  seen  before.  The  Puritan  household,  too, 
impressed  him  not  a  little — it  was  all  so  novel  ;  and 
though  he  had  to  walk  warily,  Damaris  made  up  for  the 
sense  of  restraint. 

*' I'm  dog-tired,  Hugo!"  he  exclaimed,  when  at  night 
he  and  his  friend  found  themselves  alone  together;  "I 
have  walked  delicately  like  Agag,  I  have  been  soft  and 
pliable  as  a  sucking-pig,  a  turtle-dove,  a  Puritan  of  Puri- 
tans. Never  an  oath  this  whole  blessed  day, — and  yet," 
— here  he  relieved  himself  by  a  few  strong  expletives — 
"yet  the  fair  Damaris  frowns  on  me — treats  me  as  a 
reprobate.  Tis  hard  !  'tis  cruel  hard  !  " 

"Come  out  to  Holland,  and  woo  her,"  said  Hugo. 
"She  would  make  you  aright  good  wife." 

Denham  made  a  comical  grimace. 

"  Nay,  matrimony  is  too  solemn  for  me.  'T would  de- 
press me ;  'tis  too  grave  a  risk  for  one  of  my  temperament. ' 

"Very  well,  then,  leave  Mondisfield  at  once.  An  you 
trifle  with  one  of  my  kinswomen,  I'll  never  forgive  you, 
Denham,  not  though  I  owe  .you  my  freedom  and  my  hap- 
piness. For,  look  you,  these  are  country  girls, — and — 
thank  heaven  !  — they  are  unused  to  gallantry  and  court 
manners.  An  you  go  on  making  love  to  Mistress  Damaris, 
she  will  take  you  at  your  word  and  perchance  you'll 
break  her  heart  for  her." 

"Heaven    forfendl"  said  Denham,  devoutly.     "But 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  375 

yet  the  holy  state  of  matrimony,  Hugo,  is  a  thought 
which  terrifies  me.  Where  would  be  the  freedom  I  had  of 
yore,  the  days  with  the  scourers,  the " 

"They  would  be  in  the  past,  and  a  good  thing  too," 
said  Hugo,  promptly. 

"  But, "  hesitated  Denham,  with  a  comical  dismay  in, 
his  face  "  But  d it  all,  Hugo,  I  fear  she's  a  tongue  !  " 

"Ay,  and  one  that'll  keep  yours  in  order,  I  warrant," 
said  Hugo,  laughing.  "I'll  dance  at  your  wedding, 
Denham, — it's  no  use  your  kicking  against  Fate.  Mark 
my  words,  you'll  be  a  Benedick  ere  many  moons  have 
waned.  But,  come,  a  truce  to  this  nonsense.  Tell  me 
more  of  Randolph.  Did  he  suspect  naught?  " 

' '  Naught.  We  rode  from  Bishop-Stortford  to  London 
grave  as  mutes  at  a  funeral,  though,  luckily  for  me,  at  a 
rattling  pace.  Then,  solemnly  alighting  at  my  father's 
house,  we  made  all  speed  to  see  your  remains,  which  of 
course  had  been  buried  that  morning." 

"  What  said  Randolph  ?  " 

"  He  was  closeted  with  my  father  for  some  time,  but  I 
heard  not  precisely  what  passed  betwixt  them.  Only  my 
father  told  me  afterwards  that  he  seemed  like  one  crushed 
beneath  a  heavy  load  ;  that  he  assured  him  again  and  again 
that  he  had  never  ceased  to  care  for  you,  and  had  fully 
meant, after  a  time,  to  procure  your  release." 

Hugo  sighed.  It  pained  him  terribly  to  be  obliged  to 
allow  his  brother  to  believe  in  his  death. 

"Do  you  think  it  will  never  be  safe  to  tell  him  ?"  he 
asked,  wistfully. 

' '  Why,  man  alive  I  no  ! ''  cried  Denham,  aghast  at  the 
notion.  "Twould  bring  half  a  score  of  people  into 
trouble,  and  would  undo  us  all.  He  would  be  so  mad 
with  rage  at  being  duped,  that  he  would  kill  you,  would 
challenge  the  rest  of  us,  would  ruin  Scroop,  and  stir  up 
the  very  devil." 

Hugo  was  fain  to  acquiesce  in  the  truth  of  this  speech. 
But  the  thought  of  his  brother  cast  a  dark  shadow  over  his 
sunny  future. 


376 


GOLDEN  DA  YS. 


CHAPTER    XL. 
JOYCE'S  JOURNAL. 

If  we  be  two,  we  two  are  so, 

As  stiff  twin-compasses  are  two  ; 
Thy  soul,  the  first  foot,  makes  no  show 

To  move,  but  does  if  the  other  do. 

And  though  thine  in  the  centre  sit, 
Yet  when  my  other  far  doth  roam, 

Thine  leans  and  harkens  after  it, 
And  grows  erect  as  mine  comes  home. 

Such  thou  must  be  to  me,  who  must 
Like  the  other  foot  obliquely  run ; 

Thy  firmness  makes  my  circle  just, 
And  me  to  end  where  I  begun. 

DR.  DONNE. 

So  after  all,  my  journal  ends  not  in  grief  but  in  rejoic=> 
ing  ;  not  in  thoughts  of  Hugo's  death,  but  in  the  glad 
news  of  his  return.  For  right  skilfully  his  friends  rescued 
him  from  jail,  making  as  though  he  were  dead,  and  then, 
free  and  safe  once  more,  he  made  his  way  from  London  to 
Mondisfield,  reaching  us  one  glad  spring  day  towards 
sundown. 

My  dear  love  is  changed.  He  is  much  more  beautiful  ; 
ie  hath  suffered  so  much  that  all  say  he  looks  more  like  a 
man  of  thirty  than  one  not  yet  of  age.  He  has  grown 
terrible  thin,  and  his  brow  seems  broader,  and  his  cheeks 
more  hollow,  and  his  lips  straighter  and  more  spare. 
When  I  first  saw  him,  he  seemed  all  eyes,  so  worn  and 
wasted  was  he  with  pain  and  fatigue.  But  there  is  much 
more  change  in  him  than  this  change  that  I  chronicle  in 
his  features.  Only  it  is  more  hard  to  put  into  words.  I 
suppose  there  is  nothing  like  solitude  for  teaching  us  that 
we  are  not  solitary, — nothing  like  weakness  for  making 
us  realize  what  strength  may  be  ours.  It  seems  to 
me  that  Newgate  hath  done  this  for  Hugo.  He  went 
away  a  brave  youth,  showing  his  repentance  in  deeds 
rather  than  in  words,  He  hath  come  back  a  Godlike  man 


TN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  377 

What  hath  passed  in  the  interval,  no  one  will  ever  know. 
And  that  methinks  is  as  it  should  be,  since  our  Lord  said, 
men  were  to  be  known  by  their  fruits,  not  by  chattering 
to  all  the  world  about  the  precise  time  and  manner  in 
which  the  sap  came  to  their  branch.  And  the  using  this 
simile  reminds  me  of  some  words  which  Hugo  let  fall  to- 
day. I  was  saying  to  him  as  we  walked  among  the 
woods,  how,  even  in  my  sorrow,  it  had  made  me  happy 
to  see  the  trees  coming  to  life  again,  and  growing  green 
after  the  long  cold  winter. 

"Ay,"  he  said,  "yet  they  were  coming  to  life  long 
before  you  saw  any  signs  of  it.  Tis  in  mid-winter  that  the 
sap  begins  to  rise,  when  the  plant  and  trees  have  had 
a  rest,  and  when,  having  been  forced  for  a  time  to  be  in- 
active, they  are  ready  and  longing  for  more  work." 

' '  I  never  thought  the  things  grew  in  the  winter, "  I 
said. 

"Trees  and  men,"  he  replied,  smiling.  "Tis  no  bad 
thing  to  be  for  a  time  bereft  of  all  outward  things.  As 
good  Mr.  Herbert  saith, 

"  '  O  foolish  man,  where  are  thine  eyes  ? 

How  hast  thou  lost  them  in  a  crowd  of  cares  ? ' " 

And  then  he  told  me  a  little  about  his  former  life  in  Lon- 
don, of  how  he  had  rushed  from  one  study  into  another,  or 
from  one  pleasure  to  another,  of  how  happy  his  full  fref 
life  had  been  until  all  at  once  he  found  himself  plunged 
into  Newgate  with  neither  books  nor  friends,  and  knew 
that  his  happiness  had  all  depended  on  such  outward 
things.  And  then,  he  said,  when  that  worst  time  of  all 
came,  and  he  was  cast  into  a  horrible  dungeon,  the 
thought  of  Mr.  Francis  Bampfield,  with  whom  he  had 
lived  the  previous  month,  kept  returning  to  him. 

"I  had  not  hearkened  much  to  his  sermons  and  dis- 
cussions," he  said,  "for  such  things  never  had  much  at- 
traction for  me,  but  I  thought  of  his  face,  which,  spite  of 
all  his  sufferings,  was  the  cheerfullest  you  ever  saw. " 

And  so  one  thing  and  another  helped  him,  till  he  learned 
not  to  chafe  at  the  misery  and  loneliness — and  I  fancy  it 
must  have  been  in  that  dungeon  that  he  became  what  he 
now  is.  Not  that  he  said  anything  about  it  in  direct 
words,  but  when  I  asked  him  many  questions  as  to  what 
the  dungeon  was  like  and  so  forth,  and  then  shuddered  at 
his  description  of  the  cold  and  damp  and  filth — though  I 


378  M  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

knew  he  kept  back  the  worst  details  from  me — then  he 
said  that  he  would  not  have  me  sickened  by  the  thought 
of  his  hardships,  which  might  be  put  into  words,  while 
the  comfort  he  had  had  never  could  be  told.  And  a  most 
beautiful  look  came  into  his  eyes  as  he  said  that,  spite  of 
the  wretchedness,  which  he  allowed  had  been  very  great, 
some  of  the  happiest  moments  of  his  life  had  been  spent 
th-jre. 

I  hope  I  shall  not  "  lose  my  eyes  in  a  crowd  of  cares," 
but  indeed  there  is  so  much  on  hand  just  now,  such  a 
rare  stir  and  bustle  and  excitement  in  our  usually  quiet 
life,  that  it  is  a  little  hard  to  make  time  to  think.  How- 
ever, I  shall  try,  else  I  can  never  be  fit  to  be  Hugo's  wife. 

What  with  packing  and  tidying,  putting  the  house  ia 
order,  laying  by  the  china,  and  making  preparations  for 
the  journey,  the  days  seem  very  full,  and  then  there  fc 
Rupert  Denham  in  the  house,  who  contriveth  to  waste 
much  of  our  time,  which,  however,  we  cannot  grudge 
him,  when  we  remember  all  that  he  hath  done  for  us.  1 
like  him,  he  is  so  merry  and  full  of  fun,  and  so  devoted  to 
Hugo.  I  said  to  him  to-day  that  they  seemed  more  like 
brothers  than  friends  ;  and  at  that  he  grew  quite  grave  all 
in  a  minute,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice, 

"  Fair  Mistress  Joyce,  do  you  think  there  is  indeed  any 
chance  that  we  may  one  day  be  brothers  indeed? " 

Which  speech  put  me  to  the  blush  ;  for  I  saw  at  once 
what  he  meant — since  no  one  can  help  but  know  that  he 
greatly  admires  our  Damaris.  And,  since  the  descendants 
will  perhaps  wish  to  know  the  end  of  this  love  tale  as  well 
as  of  mine,  I  shall  lake  the  journal  with  me  and  finish  it 
in  Holland. 

Amsterdam,  September,  1684. 

At  last  I  can  find  time  to  write,  and  must  indeed  make 
all  speed  to  do  so  before  the  freshness  of  things  passes 
from  my  mind.  And  yet  I  do  not  think  anything  that  has 
passed  this  happy  time  will  fade  away  from  my  memory. 
The  leaving  Mondisfield  was  sad,  but  yet  I  could  not  but 
feel  that  we  should  return  some  day,  and  that  helped  to 
lessen  the  pain  of  leaving.  We  all  set  out  at  dawn  on 
one  cold  April  morning,  wishing  to  make  as  much  progress 
that  day  as  possible,  my  mother  and  we  five  elder  ones 
inside  the  coach,  and  little  Evelyn  behind  with  nurse  and 
Tabitha,  while  Hugo  and  Rupert  rode  on  in  front,  con*- 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  379 

ing  now  and  again  to  the  window  to  ask  how  we  fared. 
How  slowly  the  old  family  coach  rumbled  along  !  And 
as  we  got  further  from  home,  and  especially  when  the 
twilight  began  to  gather,  my  mother  looked  so  anxious 
and  nervous  that  even  we  girls  began  to  tremble  and  to 
remember  all  the  horrible  tales  we  had  heard  of  high- 
waymen. 

Just  in  the  darkest  part  of  the  road,  when  great  beech- 
trees  overshadowed  us  on  every  side,  and  my  heart  be- 
gan to  quake,  my  dear  love  rode  up  to  the  coach  side, 
and  though  it  was  awkward  for  him  to  guide  his  horse  in 
so  narrow  a  way,  rode  alongside  of  us  till  we  were  out  of 
the  wood,  talking  so  briskly  all  the  time  of  other  matters 
that  we  forgot  our  fear,  and  indeed  were  quite  merry  b. 
the  time  we  reached  the  town  of  Hadleigh,  where  we  lay 
that  night 

It  made  me  very  happy  to  see  how  my  mother  leant 
upon  Hugo,  how  she  left  the  management  of  all  to  him. 
There  was  something  about  him  that  always  won  respect 
and  liking  from  strangers,  though  his  manner  was  so 
quiet  that  one  would  have  thought  he  would  have  at- 
tracted no  notice.  But,  however  it  was,  it  always  came 
about  that  where  Rupert's  orders  were  often  saucily  re* 
ceived  or  perhaps  neglected,  ostlers,  servants,  landlord? 
and  all  waited  on  Hugo's  slightest  word. 

And  what  care  he  took  of  us  all  the  journey  !  I  shall 
always  love  to  think  of  it.  The  second  day  was  bright 
and  sunshiny  as  the  first.  We  set  off  again  early  in  the 
morning.  Rupert  still  continuing  with  us,  since  he  said 
•he  must  see  us  safely  on  board  the  vessel  at  Harwich. 
He  looked  very  doleful  at  the  prospect  of  the  parting,  and 
all  that  day  kept  gathering  posies  for  Damaris  and  hand- 
ing them  in  at  the  window  with  so  tragic  an  air  that  I 
could  have  found  it  in  my  heart  to  laugh  had  I  not  felt 
rather  sorry  for  him,  since  Damaris  received  all  his  offer- 
ings with  an  unconcerned  air  that  would  have  tried  the 
patience  of  Job —  at  least,  if  he  had  been  in  love  it  would. 

Hugo  brought  flowers  for  the  rest  of  us,  having  no  coy 
lady-love  to  propitiate  with  offerings.  To  my  mother  he 
brought  violets,  to  Betty  cowslips,  to  Frances  primroses, 
to  Robina — who  scorned  anything  so  feminine  as  flowers 
— an  enormous  dandelion  which  made  every  one  laugh, 
and  to  me  a  lovely  handful  of  bluebells  and  delicate  white 
starwort,  fringed  round  with  fern-leaves. 


jgo  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

At  noon  we  paused  to  bait  the  horses  and  to  dine.  1 
noticed  then  that  Hugo  looked  very  weary,  but  he  made 
light  of  it,  and,  leaving  Rupert  to  wait  upon  Damans, 
hastened  into  the  inn  to  give  the  orders,  and  to  see  that 
everything  was  made  comfortable  for  us.  But  when  we 
sat  down  to  dine  he  excused  himself,  and  lay  back  on  the 
wooden  settle  in  the  corner,  looking  so  ill  that  I  was  ter- 
rified, and  ere  long  he  fell  into  one  of  his  shivering  fits, 
and  we  knew  he  was  attacked  once  more  by  the  ague. 

What  talking  and  confusion  arose  when  it  was  dis- 
covered. Every  one  suggested  some  different  remedy  or 
plan.  Rupert  declared  it  was  impossible  to  proceed,  and 
that  we  must  pass  the  night  at  the  inn,  which  methinks 
was  as  much  with  a  view  to  himself  as  his  friend  ;  Nurse 
talked  of  herb  tea  and  hot  blankets,  while  the  landlady 
declared  that  a  perfect  cure  for  the  ague  was  to  sit  with 
the  legs  in  a  deep  churn  full  of  hot  milk,  and  to  sip 
carduus  posset. 

I  shall  never  forget  Hugo's  face  when  he  heard  this 
remedy  proposed.  He  got  up,  wrapped  his  cloak  around 
him,  took  up  his  hat,  and  ordered  the  horses  to  be  brought 
round.  Then,  when  the  landlady  was  out  of  earshot,  he 
said  to  my  mother, 

"You  do  not  remember  that  I  am  wholly  unused  to 
luxuries  of  this  sort  I  cannot  hear  of  hindering  you  on 
your  journey." 

My  mother  was  much  perplexed,  but,  knowing  that 
there  might  be  some  risk  to  Hugo  himself  if  we  lingered 
any  longer  in  England,  she  allowed  him  to  have  his  way, 
only  insisting  that  he  must  come  inside  the  coach,  and  let 
one  of  us  girls  ride.  He  was  loth  to  do  this,  but  in  the 
end  was  forced  to  consent ;  and  so  it  fell  about,  to  Ru- 
pert's great  content,  that  a  pillion  was  put  upon  his  horse, 
and  that  Damaris  had  to  ride  to  Harwich  behind  him. 
while  Hugo's  horse,  laden  with  such  gear  as  we  could 
fasten  to  the  empty  saddle,  trotted  behind  the  coach.  I 
think  no  one  regretted  the  change  ;  I  know  I  was  glad 
enough  of  it,  while  Rupert  became  as  merry  as  a  grig, 
and  even  Damaris  relented  a  little  and  showed  him  more 
kindness  than  she  had  hitherto  done. 

And  so  all  that  afternoon  we  lumbered  along  slowly 
enough  through  the  country  lanes  and  roads,  Hugo  very 
silent,  and,  I  fear,  suffering  much,  though  he  never  com- 
plained. Once,  when  my  mother  lamented  that  we  had 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  381 

not  more  warm  wraps  with  us,  he  said,  with  a  smile,  that 
the  cushioned  seat  of  a  coach  was  Paradise  when  com- 
pared with  the  damp  stones  of  a  dungeon,  and,  pressing 
my  hand  closely,  that  he  wanted  for  nothing.  Still, 
though  he  made  light  of  all  the  discomforts,  I  did  feel  very 
glad  when  the  lights  of  Harwich  shone  out  in  the  distance, 
and  when  at  length  we  drove  up  the  street  and  halted  at 
the  door  of  an  inn. 

As  Rupert  passed  us,  I  saw  that  an  old  man  walked  be- 
side his  horse  and  talked  with  him ;  then,  as  the  coach 
stopped,  he  hurried  forward,  and  even  in  the  dim  light  I 
recognized  at  once,  from  Hugo's  description  of  him,  that 
this  must  be  his  dear  old  servant  Jeremiah.  He  was  evi- 
dently much  distressed  to  see  his  master's  plight,  but  he 
said  scarce  anything  about  it,  from  which  I  gather  that, 
knowing  my  dear  love  well,  he  has  learnt  his  ways,  and 
knows  that  Hugo  dislikes  of  all  things  any  stir,  bustle,  or 
fuss. 

"When  doth  the  next  ship  sail  for  Amsterdam  ?  "  asked 
Hugo,  leaning  forward  with  flushed  face  and  glittering 
eyes. 

"To-morrow  morning,  master,"  said  the  old  servant 

Hugo  looked  much  relieved  on  hearing  this,  and  allowed 
himself  to  be  taken  into  the  inn  without  more  delay,  lean- 
ing hard  on  Jeremiah's  arm,  and  leaving  Rupert  to  see  to 
our  comfort,  which  I  must  say  he  did  with  the  utmost 
zeal. 

I  was  so  glad  to  have  the  right  to  nurse  Hugo.  The 
landlady  at  the  inn,  a  very  kindly  body,  made  me  a  cup 
of  hot  posset  for  him,  and  I  carried  it  up  to  his  chamber, 
where  Jeremiah  received  me  somewhat  doubtfully,  till 
Hugo,  catching  sight  of  his  face,  introduced  me  to  him  as 
his  future  mistress,  whereupon  the  old  man  nearly  made 
me  cry  with  his  pretty  speeches.  He  is  a  dear  old  Puri- 
tan fellow,  and  was  enchanted  that  his  master  meant  to 
take  to  wife  one  of  the  right  sort,  as  he  expressed  it.  I 
only  wish  I  were  as  good  as  he  seems  to  think  me.  He 
left  us  at  length  with  the  remark  that  I  bid  fair  to  be  as 
handy  a  nurse  as  Mistress  Mary  Denham,  and  a  Puritan 
to  boot,  which  he  made  bold  to  say  was  a  great  advantage. 

"Why  doth  he  not  approve  of  Mistress  Denham?"  I 
asked.  "She  did  more  for  you  than  I  have  done,  or  can 
hope  to  do." 

"Jeremiah  likes  her  well,"  replied  Hugo,  "but  disaj> 


382  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

proves  of  her  gay  dresses,  of  her  dancing,  theatre-going, 
and  so  forth." 

"  Yet  she  is  very  good  ? "  I  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "I  have  good  reason  to  know 
that. " 

And  then  he  told  me  sundry  things  about  Mary  Denham 
which  I  shall  not  set  down  here,  only  they  made  me  feel 
towards  her  as  to  no  other  woman  on  earth,  and  that 
evening  I  wrote  her  a  letter,  which  Rupert  promised  to 
deliver  safely  into  her  keeping.  I  am  grieved  that  the 
letter  she  wrote  me  should  have  been  lost,  but  yet  the 
writing  hath  served  to  prove  to  us  her  generous  love,  and 
some  day,  when  we  return  to  England,  I  hope  to  become 
acquainted  with  her. 

My  dear  love  was  better  the  next  morning,  and  able  to 
bid  a  cheerful  farewell  to  his  friends  and  to  dear  Old 
England.  Poor  Rupert  looked  blank  enough — indeed,  I 
thought  we  should  never  have  got  him  off  the  ship  in 
time.  He  was  the  very  last  to  leave,  and  returned  twice 
to  kiss  Damaris'  hand  before  all  the  people,  which  made 
her  blush  crimson,  yet  I  noticed  that  she  forbore  to  scold 
him,  for  which  I  was  glad,  since  he  looked  so  miserable. 
I  even  began  to  think  that  perhaps  Damaris  cared  for  him 
a  little  bit  in  return — at  least,  she  looked  very  grave  and 
dismal  the  rest  of  the  day  ;  but,  after  all,  that  may  have 
had  naught  to  do  with  it,  for  most  of  the  passengers  be- 
gan to  look  grave  ere  long,  and  soon  the  deck  of  the  ship 
was  deserted,  and  Hugo  and  I  had  it  all  to  ourselves,  for 
which,  I  fear,  we  were  selfishly  glad.  How  he  enjoyed 
the  sailing!  I  think  I  never  knew  before  how  some 
people  can  enjoy  till  I  was  with  him  ;  and  certainly  I  had 
never  before  realized  what  imprisonment  must  be.  The 
great  expanse  of  rolling  sea,  the  great  over-arching  dome 
of  blue,  the  salt  sea-wind,  the  rapid  motion,  were  all  bliss 
to  him.  The  next  day  we  were  becalmed  for  eight  or 
nine  hours,  much  to  the  annoyance  of  the  passengers  ; 
but  Hugo  and  I  were  too  happy  to  care,  and  indeed 
storm  or  calm  was  all  one  to  us  so  long  as  we  had  each 
other.  At  length,  one  sunny  spring  afternoon,  we  really 
reached  Amsterdam.  I  suppose  the  others  had  found  the 
journey  tedious  ;  it  had  not  been  tedious  to  me,  but  of 
course  I,  like  all  the  rest,  was  overjoyed  at  the  thought  of 
seeing  my  father  again. 

It  had  been  impossible  to  apprise  him  of  the  exact  day 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  383 

of  our  arrival,  since  all  was  so  uncertain,  so  that  in  the 
end  we  took  him  by  surprise,  arriving  at  his  lodging  in 
the  Reiser's  Graft,  and  walking  in  upon  him  at  his  after- 
noon meal.  How  his  face  lit  up  at  sight  of  us !  And 
what  a  welcome  we  had  to  be  sure  !  The  good  house- 
wife, and  her  daughter,  and  the  maids,  all  bustling  about 
and  making  much  of  us,  and  chattering  in  their  outlandish 
Dutch  tongue  till  we  were  well-nigh  deafened.  As  to  our 
trunks  and  other  effects,  they  might  have  been  left  to  the 
thieves  or  lost  on  the  quay,  had  not  Hugo  looked  after 
them  all,  making  himself  understood  and  obeyed  some- 
how, and  doing  a  large  share  of  the  fetching  and  carrying 
himself,  which  is  a  way  he  has,  I  see. 

Then,  when  the  first  greetings  were  over,  my  mother 
told  my  father  the  good  news  of  Hugo's  safety,  and  with 
that  he  hastened  out  to  find  him,  and  I,  slipping  my  hand 
into  his,  went  too.  Hurrying  down  the  broad,  shallow 
stairs,  which  were  washed  so  white  one  almost  feared  to 
tread  on  them,  we  came  upon  one  who  bore  a  large  box 
on  his  shoulders.  My  father  was  passing  him,  taking  for 
granted  that  it  must  be  some  porter,  but  I  checked  him, 

"You  look  for  Hugo,  father,"  I  said,  laughing.  "He 
is  under  this  box  !  " 

My  father  turned  with  a  quick  exclamation.  Hugo  set 
down  his  burden,  and,  tossing  back  his  long  hair,  raised 
a  slightly  flushed  face  to  my  father's.  I  can  never  forget 
the  look  on  their  faces  as  they  greeted  each  other.  My 
father  is,  as  a  rule,  a  reserved  and  quiet  man,  but  he  was 
so  much  moved  at  sight  of  Hugo  that  his  customary 
manner  wholly  deserted  him. 

However,  I  know  not  that  I  can  set  down  all  that 
passed  betwixt  them,  neither  can  I  enter  into  details  of  all 
that  happy  time.  True  we  were  in  exile,  but  then  we 
were  together.  My  father  was  safe,  my  dear  love  alive 
and  well,  my  mother  happy  and  content.  Those  were 
sunny  days  for  us  all,  and  I  shall  ever  love  the  dear  old 
city,  with  its  noble  buildings,  its  sweet,  clean  houses, 
which  so  well  repay  the  daily  washings  of  the  house- 
wives, its  streets  planted  on  either  side  with  stately  lime- 
trees,  and  its  intersecting  canals  with  their  wealth  of  ship- 
ping. But,  truth  to  tell,  I  have  no  longer  time  for  writing 
of  journals,  for  there  is  much  needlework  on  hand. 

As  soon  as  Hugo  had  grown  strong  again,  he  wa* 
eager  to  find  some  work  by  which  he  could  support  him-- 


344  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

self ;  and  this  was  readily  found  for  him,  seeing  that  my 
father  hath  made  many  acquaintances  in  the  place. 
Hugo  hath  accepted  a  post  as  secretary  to  the  learned 
Professor  Ruysch,  who  is  a  professor  of  anatomy  and 
botany  here,  and  hath  taken  a  great  fancy  to  my  love, 
who  is  precisely  fitted  to  help  him  in  his  labors,  having  long 
been  accustomed  to  men  of  science  and  their  ways. 
Professor  Ruysch  hath  been  very  kind  to  us,  and  hath 
given  Hugo  a  most  liberal  salary.  He  is  a  fine-looking 
man  of  five-and-forty,  and  has  the  most  charming, 
daughter,  named  Rachel,  who,  though  she  is  but  twenty, 
can  paint  flowers  and  fruit  as  no  one  else  can  paint  them. 
She  is  already  one  of  our  greatest  friends,  but  indeed, 
did  I  once  begin  to  describe  all  the  people  of  Amsterdam 
who  have  been  kind  to  us,  I  should  never  have  done  ; 
and  since  we  are  already  preparing  for  two  weddings, 
with  suspicions  of  a  third  looming  in  the  distance,  I  must 
lay  down  my  pen  and  take  up  my  needle,  else  Hugo  will 
have  an  ill-clad  wife,  and  Damaris  set  up  house  with 
unhemmed  table-linen. 


CHAPTER  XLL 

THE    "  BRILOFT." 

And  thus  the  whirligig  of  time  brings  in  his  revenges. 

Twelfth  Night. 

A  GREATER  change  than  from  the  quiet  Suffolk  Hall  to 
the  busy  foreign  city  can  hardly  be  imagined.  It  speedily 
wrought  a  difference  in  the  quiet  country  girls  ;  they  be- 
came less  shy  and  retiring,  though  maintaining  to  the 
last  a  certain  freshness  and  simplicity  which  had  a  great 
charm.  In  spite  of  Robina's  protestations  that  they  were 
very  happy  as  they  were,  and  wanted  no  tiresome  men- 
folk to  unsettle  them,  changes  speedily  came  to  the  house 
in  the  Reiser's  Graft.  Rupert  Denham  lost  no  time  in 
sending  to  Colonel  Wharncliffe  a  formal  request  for  the 
hand  of  his  second  daughter,  and  after  some  hesitation 
and  a  lengthy  correspondence  the  father  at  length  con- 
sented to  a  betrothal,  his  scruples  being  finally  overcome 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  385 

by  Hugo's  argument  that  Rupert  only  wanted  a  good 
wife  to  make  him  all  that  could  be  wished. 

The  city  was  crowded  with  English  refugees,  and 
although  Colonel  Wharncliffe  held  aloof  from  the  more 
revolutionary  party  among  them,  and  would  give  no 
countenance  to  the  scheme  already  beginning  to  be  dis- 
cussed of  a  rising  in  favor  of  the  Duke  of  Monmouth,  he 
was  too  able  a  man  not  to  be  much  sought  after.  His 
house  was  the  rendezvous  of  the  cleverest  men  in  Amster- 
dam, and  the  marriage  which  Joyce  had  seen  looming 
in  the  distance  was  between  Betty  and  one  of  the  most 
frequent  visitors,  the  son  of  a  certain  Herr  Oylbrook,  a 
wealthy  Dutch  merchant. 

Robina  groaned,  and  voted  the  future  brothers-in-law 
an  intolerable  nuisance ;  but  she  helped,  nevertheless, 
in  the  busy  preparations  of  that  autumn,  and  behaved 
discreetly  at  the  double  wedding  which  took  place  in 
December,  Betty's  marriage  being  delayed  until  the  new 
year. 

The  festivities  were  over,  and  Hugo  and  Denham, 
having  been  well  content  to  waive  any  ceremonies  not 
in  accord  with  Puritan  decorum,  were  going  home  the 
next  day  from  a  long  afternoon's  skating,  impatient  to 
return  to  their  brides,  when  at  the  door  of  the  house  in 
the  Reiser's  Graft  Hugo  paused. 

"I  ought  to  see  Professor  Ruysch,"  he  said.  "He 
may  perchance  need  me  to-morrow.  I  will  speak  with 
him  and  be  with  you  anon." 

' '  Where  doth  he  live  ?     Is  it  not  near  the  '  Briloft '  ?  " 

"Yes,  will  you  walk  on  with  me?" 

"  Not  I !  "  said  Rupert,  with  a  laugh.  "There  is 
Damaris  standing  at  the  window,  and  have  I  not  been 
two  hours  absent  already  !  But  look  you,  if  you  pass  the 
'  Briloft,'  as  I  think  you  do,  just  call  for  my  bill.  I  was 
there  two  nights,  and  would  fain  bear  a  good  character 
in  this  place  as  one  who  is  never  in  debt." 

Hugo  smiled,  knowing  full  well  that  the  only  opinion 
in  the  city  for  which  Denham  cared  two  straws  was  the 
opinion  of  his  wife.  The  two  friends  parted  unconcern- 
edly, Hugo  making  his  way  to  the  professor's  house,  and 
encountering  the  great  man  on  his  doorstep  elaborately 
scraping  his  boots  that  the  cleanly  housewife  might  not 
scold  him. 

Spite  of  the  care  of  his  daughter,  Professor  Ruysch 


386  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

Vooked  as  if  his  clothes  did  not  belong  to  him.  His  long 
wig  was  pushed  awry,  the  feather  in  his  hat  was  old  and 
draggled,  one  end  of  his  lace  cravat  was  longer  than  the 
other,  and  there  was  about  him  an  air  of  shabby,  careless 
untidiness.  But  his  face  was  fine ;  the  features  large  and 
strongly  marked,  the  mouth  firm,  the  chin  very  prominent, 
and  the  broad  forehead  furrowed  with  hard  thought.  He 
greeted  Hugo  merrily  and  would  not  hear  of  his  return- 
ing to  work  on  the  following  day,  but  bade  him,  with  a 
kindly  smile,  go  home  to  his  pretty  bride,  and  leave  the 
botany  to  take  care  of  itself.  Pleased  and  relieved  by 
this  interview,  Hugo  made  his  way  home  again,  not  how- 
ever forgetting  Rupert's  commission. 

As  he  walked  along  the  busy  streets  which  were  already 
growing  dusk,  with  lights  beginning  to  shine  out  in  the 
windows,  he  wondered  to  himself  whether  any  one  in  that 
great  city  was  as  happy  that  day  as  he  was.  He  thought 
of  his  little  bride,  of  the  happy  future  which  lay  before 
them,  of  his  recovered  liberty,  of  his  congenial  work  with 
Professor  Ruysch,  of  his  restored  health.  The  associa- 
tions of  Amsterdam  were  so  sweet  to  him,  that  he  forgot 
as  he  walked  beside  the  canals  under  the  giant  lime-trees 
that  he  was  after  all  an  exile,  that  the  people  who  passed 
by  him  were  not  his  countrymen,  and  that  for  the  present 
he  was  quite  cut  off  from  fulfilling  Sydney's  dream  and 
serving  his  country. 

Such  thoughts  were  not  likely  to  occur  to  him  on  the 
day  after  his  marriage  ;  his  face  was  all  aglow  with  the 
afternoon's  skating,  his  heart  aglow  with  happiness,  when 
he  crossed  the  street  and  entered  the  '  Briloft, '  a  little  im- 
patient of  anything  which  hindered  his  return  to  Joyce. 

The  '  Briloft'  was  a  kind  of  tavern,  the  property  of  a 
very  wealthy  Anabaptist.  He  was  shown  upstairs  by  one 
of  the  attendants,  and  left  in  a  sort  of  hall  or  ante-chamber, 
while  the  servant  went  to  procure  the  bill.  The  place 
was  noted  for  its  quaint  devices,  but  Hugo  had  seen  them 
before,  had  with  Joyce  admired  the  fountains  in  this  upper 
room,  and  listened  to  the  wonderful  chime  of  "  purselan 
dishes,"  which  rung  changes  and  tunes  by  clockwork. 
Hanging  lamps  here  and  there  made  the  place  a  perfect 
fairyland  ;  but  he  soon  wearied  of  the  glistening  white 
foam  of  the  fountains  and  the  sweetness  of  the  chimes, 
and  growing  impatient  of  the  delay,  which  in  truth  had 
betv,  considerable,  he  determined  to  seek  the  attendant 


/AT  THE  GOLDEJV&AVS.  387 

and  remonstrate  with  him  on  his  slowness.  The  man 
had  disappeared  into  a  lighted  chamber  at  the  end  of  the 
hall,  and  Hugo  made  his  way  to  the  open  doorway,  and 
walked  into  what  was  apparently  a  public  sitting-room. 
The  servant,  however,  was  not  there,  and  he  was  just 
going  to  retrace  his  steps,  imagining  the  room  to  be  empty, 
when  a  sound  came  from  the  further  end  as  of  a  goose-quill 
on  paper,  and,  glancing  once  more  in  the  direction,  he 
made  out  in  the  dim  candlelight  the  figure  of  a  gentleman 
seated  at  a  table  writing.  He  drew  a  little  nearer,  per- 
chance it  might  be  the  manager  making  out  Denham's  bill, 
perchance  it  might  be  a  guest  who  knew  the  ways  of  the 
place  and  could  direct  him  ;  he  advanced  some  half- 
dozen  paces,  then  suddenly  halted,  unable  to  go  on  or  to 
retreat,  unable  to  move  a  muscle,  paralyzed  for  the  time 
being  by  the  horror  of  the  discovery  he  had  made.  For 
at  that  table,  directing  a  folded  letter,  sat  his  brother  ! 

"What  time  does  the  post  go  forth?"  asked  Randolph, 
having  heard  steps  in  the  room,  and  taking  for  granted  it 
was  but  one  of  the  attendants. 

There  was  no  answer ;  he  looked  up  haughtily,  wroth 
at  receiving  no  attention. 

Hugo  turned  deathly  pale,  for  in  one  horrible  flash  of 
perception  he  had  realized  what  this  meeting  involved. 
It  meant  the  end  of  his  freedom,  it  meant  separation  from 
his  wife,  it  meant  danger  to  Colonel  Wharncliffe,  and  per- 
haps ruin  to  all  who  had  aided  in  his  escape.  But  mov«» 
he  could  not.  He  stood  rooted  to  the  spot,  his  pale  fea- 
tures fixed,  and  revealing  only  by  their  haggard  look  thft 
mental  anguish  which  he  endured. 

Randolph  looked  up,  then  with  a  cry  sprang  to  his  feet 
In  the  dusky  room  only  a  few  paces  from  him  there  stood 
the  last  apparition  which  he  would  have  chosen  to  see. 
He,  as  a  disciple  of  Hobbes,  had  been  wont  to  mock  at 
ghost  stories  ;  but  he  mocked  no  longer,  his  heart  beat  so 
fast  that  it  half  choked  him,  he  gasped  for  breath,  clutched 
at  the  table  for  support.  Had  he  not  mourned  over  the 
brother,  whom  he  had  practically  murdered,  these  eight 
months?  Had  he  not  on  that  spring  day  hastened  to 
view  his  coffin  in  the  vault  of  the  city  church  ?  Had  he 
not  caused  a  tablet  to  be  engraved  to  his  memory,  and 
piled  adjective  upon  adjective  in  the  description  of  his 
virtues?  And  now  suddenly  in  this  Dutch  tavern  his 
spirit  appeared  to  molest  him.  He  was  the  more  startled 


388  Jtf  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.\ 

and  horrified,  because  he  knew  that  there  was  a  reason 
why  Hugo's  ghost  should  seek  him  at  this  particular  time  ; 
he  was  on  the  eve  of  a  duel,  and  he  made  no  doubt  that 
his  brother  had  appeared  to  warn  him  of  his  coming  fate. 

In  an  agony  of  fear  and  remorse  he  was  seized  with  a 
yet  greater  fear  that  the  spirit  would  go  away  without 
speaking  to  him. 

"  Hugo  I  "  he  gasped,  "  Hugo,  for  God's  sake  speak  to 
me!" 

Still  there  was  silence,  but  the  face  seemed  to  grow  less 
cold  and  fixed  ;  for  in  truth  Hugo  perceived  from  Ran- 
dolph's terror  that  he,  like  Joyce  on  first  catching  sight  of 
him,  took  him  for  a  disembodied  spirit.  He  saw  one  last 
hope  of  escape.  Still  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  brother 
he  moved  back  a  few  steps. 

"  Stay  !  "  cried  Randolph.  "  If  you  have  any  pity  on 
me,  stay  !  Say  at  least  that  you  pardon  me.  I  have  re- 
pented, Hugo;  repented  of  all." 

"  Repentance  should  be  in  deed  rather  than  word,"  said 
Hugo.  To  Randolph's  excited  fancy  his  voice  sounded 
strange  and  hollow. 

' '  Only  tell  me  how  I  can  show  it  in  deed,  and  I  will 
bless  you  forever  !  "  he  cried. 

"Swear, "said  Hugo,  "that  you  will  procuro  Colonel 
Wharncliffe  a  safe  return  to  his  estate." 

With  a  gesture  of  authority  he  pointed  to  his  brother's 
sword,  and  with  trembling  hands  Randolph  drew  it  from 
its  scabbard. 

"I  swear  that  I  will  procure  Francis  Wharncliffe  a  safe 
return  to  his  possessions,  and  never  more  molest  him  or 
his,  so  help  me  God." 

The  strong  man's  voice  was  weak  and  tremulous,  his 
face  was  ashy.  Even  in  the  midst  of  his  frightful  anxiety 
Hugo  could  not  help  marvelling  at  the  curious  reversal  in 
their  mutual  positions.  That  he  should  command  Ran- 
dolph, that  he  should  assume  that  tone  of  authority,  while 
his  brother  bowed  submissively  to  his  will,  and  even 
trembled  before  him,  this  was  passing  strange  !  The  old 
spell  was  so  entirely  broken,  however,  that,  although  he 
knew  the  terrible  risk  he  ran,  although  aware  that  the 
instant  Randolph  ceased  to  believe  him  to  be  merely  a 
spirit  he  would  assume  his  former  bearing,  he  felt  no 
dread,  no  self-distrust,  no  fear  now  that  his  brother's  will 
would  overpower  his  and  force  him  into  treachery  against 


/AT  THE  GOLDEN  DA  KR  389 

Colonel  Wharncliffe.  All  that  was  in  the  far  past,  he 
stood  now  calm  and  intrepid,  chained  to  the  spot,  not  by 
the  sudden  shock  of  surprise  and  horror,  but  by  the  love 
for  his  brother  which  had  outlasted  all  else. 

"Tell  me  at  least  that  you  forgive  me!"  repeated 
Randolph.  "Do  not  go  without  one  word  of  comfort" 

"I  forgave  you  long  ago,"  he  replied,  quietly,  while 
there  came  over  his  face  a  look  which  made  Randolph 
bow  his  head  and  press  his  hands  hard  over  his  eyes. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  looking  up  once  more 
— "tell  me  what  fate  awaits  me  on  the  morrow.  I  have 
called  out  John  Southland.  Is  that  the  reason  you  are 
come  ?  Do  you  warn  me  of  death  ?  " 

Grief  unspeakable  expressed  itself  in  Hugo's  face ;  he 
forgot  everything  save  that  Randolph  stood  in  mortal 
peril,  and  had  called  out  a  man  who  had  never  been 
known  to  miss  his  aim.  He  could  no  longer  endure  this 
hampered  intercourse,  he  must  break  through  the  dreary 
farce  and  declare  himself. 

Breathlessly  Randolph  watched  the  sudden  change 
which  came  over  the  face  of  his  brother ;  in  the  look  of 
grief  and  distress  he  read  his  approaching  fate,  there  was 
no  mistaking  the  strong  emotion  which  betrayed  itself  in 
the  pale  face,  and  it  was  with  a  suppressed  sob  that  the 
spectral  figure  came  hurriedly  forward  with  outstretched 
hands.  Randolph  recoiled  ;  but  the  figure  still  advanced, 
its  sad  eyes  fixed  on  him,  haunting  him  in  that  terrible 
way  in  which  they  had  haunted  him  these  many  months. 
But  this  was  no  dream,  in  another  moment  those  chill 
hands  must  touch  his,  this  death-wraith  was  not  to  be  re- 
pulsed. He  drew  nearer  and  yet  nearer,  speaking  never 
a  word  ;  to  Randolph  the  moments  seemed  like  hours,  the 
silence  of  the  room  weighed  him  down  with  horrible  op- 
pression, the  eyes  which  reproached  him,  just  because  they 
were  not  in  themselves  reproachful,  seemed  to  strike  a 
blow  at  his  heart.  This  silence  was  intolerable — madden- 
ing !  Human  nature  could  endure  it  no  longer.  With  a 
cry  he  fell — would  have  fallen  to  the  ground  had  not  those 
spectral  hands  laid  hold  of  him.  He  was  just  conscious 
enough  to  be  aware  of  this  ;  he  felt  himself  guided  down 
and  laid  gently  on  the  floor  ;  an  interval  of  dimness,  then 
the  cold  hands  were  at  his  throat  untying  his  cravat.  The 
horror  of  that  was  too  much  for  him — he  fainted  away. 

And  now  there  arose  for  Hugo  one    last    struggle. 


390  AV  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

Should  he  avail  himself  of  this  momentary  unconscious- 
ness and  rush  from  the  '  Briloft '  ?  Should  he  save  himself 
and  leave  his  brother  !  Should  he  go  back  to  his  little 
wife  and  treat  this  strange  scene  as  though  it  were  but 
some  nightmare  ?  Vividly  there  came  back  to  him  the 
recollection  of  a  very  different  interview  in  a  London  inn  ; 
he  remembered  the  unspeakable  misery  of  his  return  to 
life,  the  awful  loneliness,  the  helpless  looking  for  one 
from  whom  he  had  been  separated  forever,  the  desolation 
that  had  overwhelmed  him. 

Could  he  go  and  leave  Randolph  to  this  ?  True  the 
risk  was  great,  but  should  he  not  venture  it  ?  While  he 
still  hesitated  Randolph  recovered  his  senses. 

"Do  not  be  afraid,"  said  Hugo,  as  once  more  the  dis- 
tressed look  dawned  in  his  brother's  eyes.  ' '  I  am  no 
death-wraith.  You  were  mistaken  ;  I  never  died  at  all. 
I  am  living  at  Amsterdam  with  my  wife's  family." 

The  sentence  had  been  quietly  begun,  but  as  he  spoke 
those  last  words  his  voice  shook.  He  folded  his  arms, 
and  stood  silently  waiting  for  Randolph's  reply. 

How  would  he  take  this  revelation  ?  Would  pride  and 
anger  triumph  ?  Or  did  he  indeed  still  care  for  him  ? 

Randolph  stared  at  him  for  some  moments  without 
speaking ;  then  he  seized  his  hand  as  though  to  assure 
himself  finally,  that  his  eyes  and  ears  were  not  deceiving 
him. 

" Flesh  and  blood,  you  see,"  said  Hugo,  with  a  faint 
smile. 

"I  do  not  understand!"  cried  Randolph.  "You  are 
here  in  Amsterdam,  you  did  not  die — you  have  a  wife  I 
How  in  heaven's  name  did  you  manage  it  all  ?  " 

Hugo  drew  forward  a  chair,  and,  sitting  down,  gave 
Randolph  a  detailed  account  of  his  escape  from  Newgate, 
of  his  illness  on  the  previous  night,  of  the  scene  with  the 
Governor,  of  how  they  had  contrived  to  carry  him  to  Sir 
William  Denham's  in  a  coffin,  of  his  ride  to  Bishop-Stort- 
ford,  and  of  how  he  had  only  just  had  time  to  get  into 
hiding  before  Randolph  came  down  to  breakfast  in  the 
morning. 

"  You  did  but  save  yourself  by  the  skin  of  your  teeth," 
said  the  listener,  who  had  followed  the  story  with  breath- 
less interest.  ' '  Had  I  come  upon  you  at  table  I  should 
assuredly  have  been  in  such  a  heat  that  you  would  have 
been  carried  back  to  Newgate  1  " 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  391 

"  Yes,"  said  Hugo,  "  I  knew  there  was  no  chance  for 
me,  otherwise  I  could  not  have  borne  to  stay  there  wit- 
nessing your  remorse." 

"  Then  how,  in  heaven's  name,  is  it  that  you  do  not 
dread  revealing  the  truth  to  me  now  ?  "  exclaimed  Ran- 
dolph. 

"1  do  not  know,  for  I  have  much  more  to  lose." 

"  Why  did  you  not  effect  an  escape  while  I  lay  there  in 
the  swoon  ?  " 

"  I  could  not  leave  you  thus,  and  I  knew  that  you 
could  only  harm  me  since  your  oath  bound  you  to  serve 
Colonel  Wharncliffe." 

"  And  your  wife  ?  " 

"  You  could  not  harm  her,  she  is  Colonel  Wharncliffe's 
daughter — we  were  but  married  yesterday." 

Again  his  voice  trembled  slightly.  Randolph  continued, 
quickly, 

"  Do  you  forget  that  you  are  still  a  minor  ?  Would  it 
not  harm  her  if  I  carried  you  off  to  jail  again  ?  " 

Hugo's  lips  turned  white. 

"  I  trusted  you,"  he  replied, 

There  was  a  pathos  in  those  three  words  which  could 
not  fail  to  touch  even  such  a  man  as  Randolph.  He  said 
nothing,  but  held  out  his  hand.  Hugo  grasped  it,  and 
the  two  were  reconciled. 

After  that  Randolph  breathed  more  freely,  relapsing 
indeed  into  his  usual  manner,  and  refusing  somewhat 
haughtily  to  go  to  the  house  in  the  Reiser's  Graft. 

"  I  will  abide  by  my  oath,"  he  said;  "I  will  never 
again  molest  Francis  Wharncliffe,  though  I  came  hither 
to  see  if  I  could  not  get  hold  of  him  by  hook  or  by  crook. 
But  he  is  my  enemy  still,  and  will  ever  be.  How  I  have 
cursed  him  since  I  heard  the  news  of  your  death  !  My 
one  consolation  lay  in  this,  that  it  was  in  truth  he  who 
had  murdered  you,  not  I." 

Hugo  thought  this  a  curious  repentance,  but  he  said 
nothing.  There  was  a  pause,  which  he  broke  by  asking 
the  time  of  the  duel. 

"To-morrow  at  sunrise,"  said  Randolph.  "John 
Southland  and  I  fell  out  at  play  last  night" 

"Cannot  you  patch  up  your  quarrel  honorably  without 
fighting  ?  " 

"  No  ;  that  is  out  of  the  question." 

"  Very  well,  then  I  must  go  out  with  you."^ 


304  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

This  spontaneous  offer  broke  down  Randolph's  pride  ; 
with  a  keen  pang  he  remembered  how  he  had  last  looked 
on  Hugo  at  Whitehall,  knowing  that  he  was  leaving  him 
to  go  forth  alone  to  the  most  horrible  of  punishments  ; 
he  remembered,  too,  another  duel  when  he  had  acted  as 
Sir  Peregrine  Blake's  second,  and  had  spoken  words  which 
must  have  wounded  Hugo  to  the  quick. 

"You  forgive  me,"  he  said,  huskily.  "I  own  that  I 
need  forgiveness.  If  only  this  affair  does  not  cost  me 
my  life,  you  shall  see  how  I  will  make  good  the  past  to 
you. " 

And  thus,  after  arranging  for  the  morrow,  they  parted, 
Hugo  in  the  end  forgetting  Denham's  bill,  which  had  been 
the  cause  of  his  coming  to  the  tavern.  He  was  greatly 
shaken  by  all  that  he  had  been  through  ;  he  walked  the 
streets  of  Amsterdam  like  one  in  a  dream,  hardly  knowing 
whether  he  were  relieved  or  burdened  by  this  interview. 
Joyce  had  been  watching  for  him,  and  flew  downstairs  to 
open  the  great  door  and  welcome  him,  but  something  in 
his  face  frightened  her.  He  caught  her  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  her  passionately. 

"What  is  it,  dear  heart?"  she  asked.  "What  makes 
you  so  pale  and  worn  ?  Hath  Professor  Ruysch  quar- 
relled with  you  ?  What  has  happened  ?  " 

He  did  not  reply  till  they  had  reached  their  room,  then 
his  calm  gave  way.  The  danger  past,  he  realized  how 
great  had  been  the  peril,  how  awful  the  anxiety,  how 
priceless  were  the  treasures  of  love,  and  life,  and  freedom. 
Gradually  Joyce  drew  from  him  all  that  had  happened. 
Long  ago  she  had  ceased  to  feel  harshly  towards  Ran- 
dolph ;  the  others  might  occasionally  drop  some  word 
of  strong  dislike,  or  severely  censure  the  family  foe,  but 
Joyce  never.  For  Christ's  commands  are  never  impos- 
sible, and  an  enemy  really  prayed  for  becomes  in  time 
beloved. 

"If  he  is  wounded  on  the  morrow,"  she  said,  gently  ; 
"if,  as  you  fear,  it  should  go  against  him,  then  bring  him 
here,  Hugo." 

And  Hugo  promised  that  he  would 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  393 


CHAPTER  XLI1 

RECONCILED. 

But  justice,  though  her  dome  she  doe  prolong 
Yet  at  the  last  she  will  her  owne  cause  right. 

SPENSER. 

NATURALLY  enough  the  news  caused  not  a  little  pertur- 
bation in  the  family  ;  Joyce,  who  was  more  nearly  con- 
cerned than  the  others,  took  it  all  far  more  quietly  ;  but 
then  she  was  much  under  her  husband's  influence,  and 
saw  things  from  his  point  of  view.  Her  chief  anxiety 
was  now  for  Randolph's  safety.  Hugo  had  gone  forth  at 
dawn  looking  terribly  anxious,  and  since  then  Joyce  had 
become  so  firmly  convinced  that  Randolph  would  be 
brought  back  wounded  that  she  had  made  ready  a  room 
for  him,  put  new  sheets  of  her  own  spinning  upon  the 
bed,  and  placed  ready  to  hand  all  that  she  thought  might 
be  needed  by  the  leech. 

Then  she  stationed  herself  at  the  window  to  watch.  It 
was  a  cold,  gray  winter's  morning ;  the  church  bells 
sounded  loud  and  clear,  but  they  had  to-day  a  melancholy 
cadence,  at  least  she  fancied  su,  although  but  yesterday 
they  had  seemed  like  the  fai;  echoes  of  her  great  joy. 
Two  half-frozen  looking  robins  were  flying  from  twig  to 
twig  of  the  trees  opposite  ;  vendors  of  fish  and  fnut  went 
by  with  heavy  baskets  hanging  from  the  wooden  yoke 
round  their  shoulders.  Bustling  housewives  hurried  to 
the  market,  wearing  great  flopping  hats,  little  round 
capes,  and  hoops  in  their  skirts.  Joyce  saw  this  in  a 
kind  of  dream,  while  all  the  time  her  thoughts  were  far 
away.  She  thought  much  of  her  husband,  she  recalled 
vividly  her  first  sight  of  him,  when  he  had  tripped  up  Sir 
Peregrine  Blake  and  freed  her  from  his  unwelcome  atten- 
tions. She  thought  of  that  duel  two  years  before,  and  of 
the  great  changes  wrought  by  it.  She  wondered  much 
whether  this  duel  would  be  as  fruitful  of  results. 

All  at  once  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  for,  looking  down 


394  W  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS. 

the  street,  she  caught  sight  of  a  litter  being  borne  by  four 
men.  Her  husband  was  nowhere  to  be  seen ;  she  hurried 
down,  terribly  frightened,  and  was  glad  enough  to  en* 
counter  her  old  nurse  on  the  stairs. 

"Whither  away,  honey?"  said  the  nurse,  caressingly. 
"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"Come!"  she  cried,  breathlessly.  "Come  and  helpr 
here  is  my  husband's  brother  wounded." 

She  threw  open  the  door  ;  the  bearers  seemed  in  some 
doubt,  but  had  come  to  a  standstill 

"Yes,  yes/'  she  explained,  quickly,  in  Dutch.  "It  is 
all  right,  it  is  my  brother-in-law — bring  him  in." 

As  she  spoke  her  eyes  met  those  of  the  wounded  man  ; 
he  was  past  speaking,  but  she  read  in  his  expression  that 
he  longed  to  protest  against  being  carried  into  this  house. 

"You  will  not  mind,  you  will  come  here  for  Hugo's 
sake,"  she  said,  bending  over  him.  The  troubled,  agon- 
ized look  deepened,  but  he  seemed  reluctantly  to  assent, 
and  the  bearers  took  him  to  the  chamber  which  Joyce 
had  made  ready. 

The  nurse  fetched  strong  restoratives,  and  in  a  little 
time  he  recovered  himself  enough  to  speak. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asked,  fixing  his  eyes  on  Joyce, 
and  apparently  forgetting  that  she  had  spoken  to  him  as 
he  was  borne  into  the  house. 

'*  I  am  your  sister,  Joyce,"  she  said,  quietly. 

And  then,  because  he  looked  so  ill  and  miserable,  and 
because  he  belonged  to  Hugo,  she  stooped  down  and 
kissed  him  shyly  on  the  cheek. 

He  turned  away  with  a  groan. 

Joyce  knew  his  face  well,  it  had  stamped  itself  upon  her 
brain  on  that  terrible  summer  day  in  the  hall  at  Mondis- 
field.  But  she  saw  now,  what  she  had  been  unable  to 
see  then,  that  certain  outlines  of  his  face  bore  no  little 
resemblance  to  Hugo.  The  expression  had  been  so 
different  that  she  had  never  till  now  noticed  it — it  deep- 
ened her  grief  for  him,  and  intensified  her  pity.  She  felt, 
as  she  had  never  deemed  it  possible  she  should  feel,  that 
he  really  was  her  brother. 

A  gleam  of  pleasure  came  over  Hugo's  troubled  face, 
as  he  entered  with  the  leech  whom  he  had  been  to  sum- 
mon, and  caught  sight  of  his  wife  in  her  new  character  of 
sick-nurse.  But  he  made  some  excuse  to  draw  her  away 
from  the  alcove. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS.  395 

••  You  must  not  stay  while  the  leech  is  at  his  work,"  ho 

said. 

"Already  you  are  looking  pale  and  tired,  as  though 
you  had  not  breakfasted  " 

"  Not  more  so  than  you,"  she  said,  tenderly.  "The 
duel  went  against  him,  then  ?  " 

"Yes,  it  was  all  over  in  less  time  than  I  can  tell  you  of 
it.  John  Southland  never  yet  missed  his  man.  I  knew 
Randolph  had  not  a  chance." 

"But  the  leech  may  cure  him,"  said  Joyce. 

"I  think  not,"  said  Hugo,  sadly. 

His  foreboding  proved  to  be  true.  The  leech  tortured 
the  wounded  man  for  an  hour  or  so,  then  gave  him  up, 
and  told  him  bluntly  that  there  was  sio  hope  for  his  life. 
Both  surgery  and  manners  were  rough  in  those  days. 

Randolph  was  too  -trong  a  man  not  to  take  the  news 
calmly,  he  had  far  too  much  of  the  Wharncliffe  reserve  to 
say  one  word  of  regret  to  his  brother,  or  to  utter  one 
complaint ;  whatever  the  state  of  his  mind,  he  was  not 
likely  to  betray  it  to  any  living  being,  but  Hugo  took  some 
comfort  by  his  quick  recollection,  spite  of  his  weakness 
and  suffering,  of  the  oath  he  had  made  on  the  previous 
night. 

"Fetch  hither  your  ink-horn,"  he  said,  when  Hugo  re- 
turned from  bidding  the  leech  farewell  "I  must  write 
at  once  to  the  King,  else  will  you  still  have  to  remain  in 
exile.  Also  I  will  ask  him  to  grant  a  safe  return  to  Francis 
Wharncliffe." 

Hugo  drew  a  chair  to  the  bedside  and  wrote  at  his 
brother's  dictation  such  a  letter  as  could  hardly  fail  to 
procure  pardon  for  both  of  them,  unless  it  chanced  to  find 
the  King  in  an  ill-humor.  Should  this  happen  he  half 
feared  that  Scroop  and  the  Den  hams  might  get  into 
trouble,  and  this  made  him  suggest  a  new  idea  to 
Randolph. 

"You  see,"  he  began,  "it  will  at  once  be  known  that 
Sir  William  Denham  is  compromised  by  my  escape. 
How  would  it  be,  think  you,  to  send  this  letter  to  London 
by  Rupert  Denham,  and  let  Sir  William  himself,  if  he 
thinks  well,  bear  it  to  the  King,  seeking  a  fit  oppor- 
tunity ? " 

"  Tis  not  an  ill  thought,"  said  Randolph.  "  The  King 
is  fond  of  him,  and  respects  him  as  a  man  of  science. 
How  comes  Rupert  Denham  here  ? " 


396  /V  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS. 

"He  is  but  lately  married  to  Damans,  Colonel  Whan* 
cliffe's  second  daughter." 

"Denham  married! — and  to  a  Puritan  maid!  Good 
God!  is  the  world  coming  to  an  end?"  said  Randolph, 
astonished  and  amused. 

" There  are  Puritans  and  Puritans,"  said  Hugo,  smil- 
ing. "Also  Denham  is  not  what  he  once  was.  It  would 
be  asking  a  great  deal  of  him  to  leave  his  bride  and 
hasten  to  England,  and  yet  I  think  he  would  do  it." 

"  He  would  do  it  for  you,"  said  Randolph,  with  a  touch 
of  bitterness  in  his  tone,  "  any  one  would  do  any  thing  for 
you.  Am  not  I  sacrificing  the  wish  of  a  lifetime,  and 
helping  my  bitterest  foe,  for  your  sake  ?  Here  have  I 
plotted  and  planned  for  years,  yet  in  the  end  all  my  hopes 
are  defeated  by  you, — I  am  conquered  by  you  !  "  There 
was  an  extraordinary  mixture  of  contempt  and  admiration 
in  the  last  word ;  it  was  as  though  the  two  sides  of 
Randolph's  character  were  struggling  together,  and 
neither  could  obtain  the  mastery. 

"You  are  not  conquered  by  me  but  by  God,"  said 
Hugo,  speaking  with  an  effort. 

"God  is  out  of  fashion,  Hobbes  is  all  the  rage,"  said 
Randolph,  with  a  sarcastic  smile.  And  after  that  he  re- 
lapsed into  silence.  Hugo  mused  sadly  over  his  words. 
He  mused  over  Hugo's. 

The  shaking  signature  of  the  wounded  man  was  duly 
affixed  to  the  letter,  and  that  very  day  Denham  set  sail 
for  England.  He  fully  realized  the  gravity  of  the  situa- 
tion, and  willingly  undertook  the  work  for  his  friend, 
knowing  that  there  was  no  one  else  who  could  manage  it 
so  well.  Damaris  cried  her  heart  out,  but  would  not  for 
the  world  have  kept  her  husband  back.  And  in  fact  she 
was  not  much  worse  off  than  Joyce,  since  Hugo  scarcely 
left  his  brother  night  or  day,  and  when  for  brief  moments 
she  did  see  him  alone,  he  was  sad  and  harassed,  and  pre- 
occupied. Had  she  not  been  able  to  help  him  in  nursing 
Randolph  she  would  have  been  miserable  ;  but  luckily  the 
sick  man  had  no  objection  to  her  presence,  and,  although 
she  did  not  in  the  least  know  it,  she  had  great  influence 
with  him.  He  would  lie  for  hours  watching  her,  as  she 
sat  just  outside  the  alcove  with  her  needle-work  ;  he  saw 
how  she  followed  Hugo  about  with  her  eyes,  how  sweet 
was  her  face  and  how  tender  her  voice  when  she  spoke  to 
him,  how  quietly  and  unobtrusively  she  made  arrange* 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS.  397 

ments  for  him,  laid  cunning  little  plots  to  tempt  him  to 
rest  or  to  eat,  and  allowed  him  to  take  the  lion's  share  of 
the  nursing,  though,  womanlike,  she  longed  to  have  it  all 
her  own  way. 

He  became  very  careful  of  the  language  he  used  in  her 
presence.  He  admitted  to  himself  that  Hugo  was  right 
and  that  there  were  Puritans  and  Puritans.  He  remem- 
bered with  keen  remorse  how  terribly  he  had  made  Joyce 
suffer.  He  wondered  much  whether  she  had  forgiven 
him.  One  day  Hugo,  after  a  long  night's  watching,  fell 
asleep  in  his  chair  by  the  bedside,  and  Joyce,  stealing 
noiselessly  into  the  alcove,  spread  a  fur  rug  over  him. 

"You  are  not  ashamed  to  be  fond  of  your  husband," 
remarked  Randolph,  with  a  touch  of  sarcasm  in  his  voice. 
"An  you  go  to  court  on  your  return,  you  had  better  not 
show  it  so  plainly,  else  you  and  he  will  be  the  laugh- 
ing-stock of  the  place. " 

For  a  minute  Joyce  made  no  reply,  and,  chafed  by  her 
silence,  he  said  bitterly, 

"Ah,  it  is  all  very  well  now,  but  by  and  by  you  will 
find  that  he's  not  the  only  fine  young  spark  ;  then  you'll 
look  on  marriage  with  other  eyes." 

She  turned  upon  him  with  a  sweet  scorn  not  to  be  de- 
scribed in  words,  but  perhaps  realizing  that  he  was  ill,  and 
remembering  how  sad  was  the  description  her  mother  had 
given  her  of  his  past  life,  her  eyes  grew  pitiful,  and  she 
said,  with  quiet  dignity,  as  if  making  excuse  for  him, 

"  I  see  you  know  just  nothing  at  all  about  it." 

Randolph  was  silent.  In  all  his  life  no  one  had  spoken 
to  him  in  such  a  way.  He  flushed  deeply,  but  not  with 
anger  or  resentment.  Joyce  finding  the  silence  uncom- 
fortable, added, 

"  And  though  I  do  not  think  I  would  mind  being  made 
a  laughing-stock  of  for  that  reason,  yet  I  do  not  believe 
we  shall  be  at  the  court  more  than  can  be  helped." 

"Has  Hugo  spoken  of  your  return  to  England  ?  " 

"  Yes,  once  he  said  a  few  words  about  it,  just  after 
Rupert  had  sailed. " 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  What  sort  of  a  life  would  he  lead  ? 
When  I  am  dead,  you  know,  he  will  be  next  heir  to 
Mondisfield." 

"Yes,  I  know  it;  but  he  would  not,  I  think,  live  ai 
Mondisfield  in  my  father's  lifetime.  He  said  something  of 
being  called  to  the  Bar,  and  living  quietly  in  London; 


398  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DAV& 

then  Damaris  and  I  shall  be  near  each  other,  and  I  shall 
leam  to  know  Mistress  Mary  Denham  and  the  little  Duchess 
of  Grafton,  and  Mr.  Evelyn  and  his  daughter.  I  should 
like  to  live  in  London." 

"  Hateful  place  !  "  said  Randolph,  bitterly. 

"Is  it  hateful ? "  she  asked,  in  surprise. 

Something  in  her  innocence  and  childlikeness  softened 
him  ;  he  smiled  a  little  as  he  looked  into  her  clear  blue 
eyes. 

"  It  will  not  be  hateful  to  you,  my  little  sister,"  he 
said,  kindly ;  "a  place  is  what  you  yourself  make  it" 

Hugo  stirred  in  his  sleep  ;  she  glanced  round 

"  We  must  talk  more  softly.  I  want  him  to  sleep,  for 
he  looks  weary." 

"Yet  he  tells  me  he  is  stronger  again,  and  hath  had  no 
return  of  the  ague  of  late. " 

"No,"  she  replied,  "  it  is  true,  he  is  better,  but  they  say 
that  he  will  always  feel  the  effects  of  what  he  has  been 
through.  He  never  can  be  quite  what  he  was  before 
Newgate." 

She  had  so  fully  and  freely  forgiven  Randolph,  that  she 
forgot  at  the  moment  that  her  words  would  convey  to  him 
any  reproach. 

"Joyce,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand,  "Joyce,  can  you 
ever  forgive  me  the  suffering  that  I  wrought  for  you 
both  ? " 

Then  Joyce,  in  her  sweet  unconscious  way,  told  him 
how  she  had  begun  by  hating  him,  and  how  her  mother 
had  first  made  her  sorry  for  him,  and  then  that,  some- 
how— but  she  could  not  tell  the  manner  of  it — love  and 
forgiveness  had  sprung  up  in  her  heart  for  him. 

"Tell  me,  little  sister,"  he  said,  when  she  paused, 
"  tell  me,  is  there  aught  that  I  can  do  now  to  please  you 
or  him  ?  Is  there  aught  that  can  make  up  in  the  slightest 
for  the  past  ?  " 

' '  There  is  one  thing  I  should  like  you  to  do, "  said  Joyce, 
promptly.  "The  leech  says  you  might  be  borne  into  the 
next  room.  I  should  like  you  to  see  my  father  and  the 
rest  of  us  ;  I  should  like  you  to  learn  at  last  what  my 
father  is." 

Randolph  frowned.  She  could  not  have  suggested 
anything  more  distasteful  to  him ;  however,  he  would 
not  go  back  from  what  he  had  said,  and  consented  the 
next  day  to  be  carried  into  the  parlor. 


Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  KS  399 

And  thus,  strangely  enough,  his  last  hours  were  spent 
in  the  household  of  his  lifelong  foe,  and  for  the  first  time 
he  learnt,  as  Hugo  had  learnt  in  the  gallery  at  Mondis- 
field,  the  charm  of  that  family  life.  After  the  first  plunge 
he  made  no  more  objections,  and  was  carried  daily  into 
the  sitting-room.  He  did  not  suffer  much,  but  just  died 
by  inches,  as  is  sometimes  the  way  with  strong  men. 
Every  day  the  leech  said,  "This  will  certainly  prove  the 
last,  the  patient  loses  strength  rapidly." 

But  still  he  lingered  on,  clinging  to  life  in  a  way  which 
astonished  every  one. 

One  afternoon  his  strong  reserve  melted  a  little,  and 
turning  to  Hugo  he  said, 

"I  had  great  power  over  you  once,  Hugo.  I  could 
make  you  do  almost  anything  ;  it  was  just  by  the  force  of 
my  will  I  could  do  it.  You  marvel,  all  of  you,  why  I 
linger  so  long  in  this  wretched  plight  I  will  tell  you — it 
is  because  I  will  not  die.  I  m  an  to  live  till  Denham 
comes  back  with  the  King's  message." 

"You  must  not  disturb  yourself,  even  if  his  Majesty 
will  not  grant  your  request,"  said  Hugo  ;  "for  sec  here, 
we  are  no  worse  off  than  we  were  before  you  came  to 
Amsterdam.  The  city  will  not  give  us  up  ;  ve  are  quite 
safe  here." 

"I  know  it,  but  I  would  fain  have  you  return,"  said 
Randolph,  sighing.  "You  were  meant  to  be  something 
other  than  clerk  to  a  Dutch  professor." 

"If  we  do  return,"  said  Hugo,  musingly,  "I  shall  live 
in  retirement.  All  public  life  is  closed  to  me  until  the  tide 
turns.  But  I  think  it  will  turn  ere  long.  Things  cannot 
go  on  as  they  are." 

"Which  means  that  when  his  Majesty  and  the  Duke  of 
York  have  passed  off  the  scenes,  you  would " 

"I  should  endeavor  to  follow  in  the  steps  of  him  who 
was  martyred  last  year.  Should  try  to  get  into  parliament, 
should  spend  my  life  so  far  as  might  be  in  working  for  the 
good  of  the  people." 

"Gallant  sentiments,"  said  a  merry  voice  in  the  door- 
way, "brave  words,  mine  Hugo,  and  just  like  yourself." 

"What,  Denham  !  "  exclaimed  both  the  brothers,  in  a 
breath.  Hugo  sprang  forward  to  meet  him,  the  dying  man 
half  raised  himself  with  a  momentary  return  of  strength, 
while  the  old  peremptory  tone  came  back  to  his  voice. 

"  What  news  do  you  bring  ?  "  he  asked,  impatiently. 


400  TN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

But  he  had  to  wait  for  an  answer,  for  Damaris  had  heard 
her  husband's  voice,  and  came  running  in  from  the  next 
Toom  to  greet  him,  while  little  Evelyn  proclaimed  his  ad- 
vent to  the  whole  household,  so  that  by  the  time  Rupert 
and  Damaris  had  a  word  to  spare  for  outsiders,  the  family 
were  all  gathered  together.  Joyce  came  bringing  in  the 
lamp,  every  one  crowded  round  Denham,  with  eagei 
greetings  and  questions,  they  all  talked  at  once,  there  was 
quite  a  babel  in  the  usually  quiet  room,  while  Randolph, 
in  his  distant  corner,  lay  charing  at  the  delay,  and  marvel- 
ling how  Hugo  could  wait  so  patiently  beside  him  while 
uncertain  what  his  fate  was  to  be. 

It  was  Joyce  who  remembered  the  invalid,  and  drew 
Denham  towards  the  couch. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "  Randolph  cannot  hear  your  tidings 
while  we  press  around  you  thus  ;  but  it  must  be  good  news 
else  he  would  not  look  so  merry,  would  he,  Hugo  ?  " 
And  she  slipped  her  arm  into  her  husband's. 

"You  saw  his  Majesty?"  asked  Randolph,  quickly. 

"Ay,  ay,  we  saw  him,"  said  Denham,  sobered  by  the 
great  change  which  he,  as  a  fresh  comer,  instantly  noticed 
in  the  sick  man.  "My  father  obtained  an  audience,  and 
I  went  in  with  him  to  tell  how  you  all  pined  away  in 
exile  and  longed  to  return.  As  good  luck  would  have  it, 
we  found  the  King  in  excellent  humor,  and  I  delivered  your 
letter  into  his  own  hands,  after  he  had  duly  swallowed  my 
father's  confession." 

"  What  did  he  say  to  Sir  William  ?  Did  he  blame  him 
much  for  having  helped  in  my  escape  ?  "  asked  Hugo. 

"No,  luckily  for  us  the  story  amused  him,  and  you 
know  you  were  always  a  favorite  with  him.  '  Confound 
the  young  rascal ! '  he  exclaimed,  when  we  told  him  how 
that  you  were  alive  and  well,  and  married  to  boot. 
'Here  have  I  been  wasting  prayers  for  his  soul,  deeming 
him  in  purgatory,  when  he  was  all  the  time  enjoying  him- 
self over  the  water.' " 

"And  then  he  asked  whether  you  had  married  the  lady 
of  the  handkerchief,  and  said  he  should  expect  to  see  you 
both  at  Whitehall.  So  after  all,  sir,"  turning  with  a  smile 
to  Randolph,  "  there  is  some  chance  that  he  may  make 
his  way  at  court,  and  that  in  a  second  wager  I  might  be 
the  loser." 

But  Hugo  shook  his  head.  Randolph  did  not  reply, 
or1"  with  an  air  of  content  examined  the  written  pardon 


Iff  THE  GOLDEN  DA  VS.  4^1 

which  Denham  had  brought  back  with  him.  At  length  he 
looked  up  and  said,  with  an  air  of  effort, 

"And  what  did  his  Majesty  say  to  my  petition  for 
Colonel  Wharncliffe  ? " 

Denham  produced  another  parchment. 

"This  will  render  Colonel  Wharncliffe  perfectly  safe  in 
returning  to  Mondisfield,  no  one  will  molest  him  there  so 
long  as  he  does  not  mix  himself  up  in  public  matters." 

Randolph  glanced  at  the  document,  then  handed  it  to 
his  kinsman. 

"You  run  no  risk  in  returning,  sir,"  he  said.  "No  one 
bore  any  ill-will  to  you  except  myself :  you  might  have 
been  at  Mondisfield  now  had  it  not  been  for  me.' 

"All  that  is  past  and  over,"  said  the  colonel,  with  grave 
kindness.  "Do  not  let  us  unearth  an  evil  which  is  both 
repented  of  and  forgiven.  And,  children,  let  us,  before 
separating  thank  Him  who  has  been  pleased  to  end  our 
exile  and  permit  us  to  go  home/' 

Randolph  looked  on  in  much  surprise  ;  a  great  hush  fell 
upon  the  room  which  just  before  had  been  so  noisy  ;  even 
Denham,  merry,  mischief-making  Denham,  knelt  gravely 
with  the  rest  of  the  family.  An  uneasy  sense  of  loss 
stole  over  the  dying  man  ;  he  glanced  round  the  wains- 
cotted  walls,  the  cheerful  room  with  its  blazing  fire  and  mel- 
low lamplight,  he  looked  at  little  Evelyn,  nestled  up  close 
to  her  mother,  his  eyes  wandered  from  one  to  another, 
resting  long  upon  Hugo  and  Joyce  as  they  knelt  hand  in 
hand.  What  was  it  that  he  had  somehow  missed  in  life  ? 
What  unknown  gift  did  these  kinsfolk  of  his  possess  which 
failed  them  neither  in  prosperity  nor  adversity  ! 

His  life  was  over,  and  he  had  miserably  failed :  he  knew 
that  he  was  passing  into  an  unknown  country,  and  he  felt 
much  as  an  emigrant  might  feel  who  is  about  to  be  landed 
on  a  foreign  shore,  with  no  capital,  with  no  outfit,  with 
no  friends  to  greet  him,  and  with  no  knowledge  of  the 
language. 

And  yet  had  he  absolutely  no  knowledge  ? — did  not  the 
words  which  Colonel  Wharncliffe  was  speaking  bring  back 
to  him  a  far-away  vision  of  his  mother  ?  The  room  grew 
hazy  and  indistinct ;  he  thought  he  was  at  home,  in  the 
old  home  which  had  been  desolated  in  the  great  plague 
year.  Was  it  a  dream  that  he  was  young  and  innocent 
once  more  ? 

Yes,  for^the  mist  rolled  away,  and  he  was  back  again  in 
' 


402  IN  THE  GOLDEN  DA  YS. 

the  present ;  for  years  past  he  had  mocked  at  "  inno- 
cency,"  and  had  not  taken  heed  to  the  things  that  were 
right, — how  was  it  likely  that  he  should  have  "peace  at 
the  last?" 

A  less  reserved  man  would  have  groaned  aloud,  but 
Randolph  was  silent ;  no  sign  escaped  him  of  that  most 
terrible  pain — the  torture  of  realizing  that  a  life  wasted — 
ay,  and  worse  than  wasted — is  over.  In  his  anguish  he 
looked  at  his  brother.  Hugo  would  live  on  and  leave  be- 
hind him  a  name  beloved  and  honored, — Hugo  would 
leave  the  world  better  than  he  found  it !  How  hideous  did 
his  own  past  look  as  it  rose  before  him — rose  in  contrast 
with  the  other's  happy  future  !  Then,  and  not  till  then, 
did  he  realize  in  all  its  fulness  the  bitterness  of  death. 

God  Himself  cannot  give  us  back  our  lost  opportunities. 

So,  in  the  "  Golden  Days,"  as  now,  were  men  led  by 
suffering,  by  failure,  by  love,  by  life,  and  by  death  to  tht 
perception  of  their  human  weakness,  their  Divine  strength. 

Very  still  was  the  room  where  that  final  struggle  raged. 
Very  calm  was  the  colonel's  voice  as  he  spoke  the  closing 
words  of  their  thanksgiving. 

"The  grace  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  the  love  of 
God,  and  the  communion  of  the  Holy  Spirit  be  with  us 
all.  Amen. " 

A  second  voice  joined  faintly  in  the  last  word.  They  all 
of  them  noticed  it,  for  in  that  Puritan  household  it  was  not 
the  custom  :  they  noticed  it,  and  remembered  it  after- 
wardc  with  comfort. 

"You  will  be  weary  after  this  excitement,"  said  Hugo, 
drawing  near  to  the  couch,  while  Joyce  went  to  kiss  and 
congratulate  her  father  and  mother,  and  Rupert  and 
Damans  wandered  off  to  the  oriel  window.  "You  must 
re  i — we  will  take  you  back  to " 

But  there  he  broke  off  with  a  stifled  exclamation  of  grief 
and  a^./e. 

His  brother  was  dead 


A     000035790     5 


